


the levels beneath us

by MooksMookin, spacegirlkj



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, akira meets neon genesis meets shugo chara meets bladerunner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2019-09-27 08:51:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 65,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooksMookin/pseuds/MooksMookin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegirlkj/pseuds/spacegirlkj
Summary: The year is 2077, and from the ruins of nuclear meltdowns and the melted icecaps rises Neo Tokyo, a city built on levels. Each level below the top— dubbed surface by anyone who had so much as breathed the culture of the levels underneath— became less and less established. Where the world’s resources poured on the surface to create skyscrapers and holograms, robots and technology to enrich life, the lower levels were left abandoned, no more than a convenient place for the poor and the less sightly workings of the city.When Hinata Shouyou earns a pass to an academy on the surface, he's thrust into a culture so unlike his own, the changing of the tides, and the arms of an enigmatic Oikawa Tooru. This divide is how a country running on money and the control of the masses becomes utopia. This is how a city with the world’s eyes watching its magnificence becomes dystopian.





	1. rise

**Author's Note:**

> hi! kj here, and welcome to a fic im fucking READY to write. this was inspired by akira, influenced by neon genesis evangelion, and somehow shugo chara too!  
> here is a heads up: this au gets dark. like, really dark. like torture and violence and manipulation dark. however its also gonna be extremely gay and super ridiculous and i promise youll all love it. also, oikawa is a bad boy in this. what more can i say besides merry christmas!
> 
> \--  
> HEY EVERYBODY MERRY CHRISTMAS HAPPY HOLIDAYS ITS LEVELS AU TIME!!! i fuckin love this au i love aloof oikawa and its gonna be so super gay and make up for the extreme lack of gay in mages i promise jsdngsdg  
> ANYWAY we have a special announcement thats gonna be going up soon-ish? that i cant specifically name because of the TOS on ao3 so please keep an eye out on either of our twitters! I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE FIC!! ITS GONNA BE GAY FAM!!!

Water drips from long rusted steel beams that hold up Neo Tokyo from the throes of water below. Each drop echoes as it splatters, rhythmic in a place where music is something that echoes from houses fashioned out of rotting wood and sheet metal. The scent of sulfur and salt water is pungent in the humid underbelly of the city, in the depths of its ever struggling core, and Oikawa inhales it all. The levels above have makeshift roads for the bikers who are brave enough to butt heads with authority, motors revving and billowing carbon monoxide that seeps through the ceilings. Gunshots rattle and ring, the beams that support his feet tremoring as voices begin to shout.

Lower levels— he knows what they are, knows _where_ they are, knows that the patchwork floor where he stands is the last structure between the soles of stolen shoes and the ocean below. From here, he can hear the waves, no longer an ever present drone but a deafening crash that leaves water to rush through the gaps in the metal bolts, lifting them enough for their structure to bend and creak. He doesn’t have much time; that fact is clear despite the fog surrounding him. Soon, this anthropological tide pool will fill once more and sweep him under with it, to the depths of a sea fuelled by melted glaciers and icecaps alike. Oikawa knows that too— that the world should’ve ended years ago, yet still remains in a strange kind of phosphorescence that leaves much to be desired.

His footfalls grow faster until he is running, bare feet splashing in the puddles of salt, rain, and wastewater. He runs, past where the sheeted floor ends, leaping over onto a gap towards a single beam. He lands running, feet catching grip and body balancing despite the slick material of long worn metal. Lungs burn, filled with noxious fumes that coalesce in his bloodstream, but breathe steady, guiding oxygen to a heart that beats slow and steady. _Thump. Thump. Thump._ Steady, rhythmic, like the patter of water from above.

Oikawa does not know where he’s headed beyond _up._ There is an urge within him, one not lost by evolution or circumstance alike— to see sunshine in a cloudless sky above his head. And so, for that alone, he hoists himself up through a crack in the infrastructure again and again, until water no longer soaks through the floorboards, until he can corner himself in a perch overlooking sheets of metal bent out of shape and turned towards the sea. Only then does he succumb to the panic and exhaustion overtaking him, body and mind going lax as his pool of adrenaline runs dry, the world around him fades to black.

—

_2077_

 

It’s a rare day where Hinata wakes dry. His sister Natsu wriggles from his arms and crosses the room to where their mother stands, silhouetted through the screen separating their beds. She waves, a shadowed figure without definition, and makes a few puppet animals as Hinata busies himself with gathering what he’ll need for the day. All of his clothes are damp, carrying a kind of musty scent that will never be washed out. Three layers later, the goosebumps on his arms subside, and Natsu’s attention has been diverted towards the rumble in her empty stomach. It’s crowded, as most mornings are, with Natsu running between his legs and his mother scrambling to find something for the two to eat, coordinated chaos in their tiny abode. It’s fashioned from two shipping crates welded together, half a wall still intact to create privacy for the washroom. When Hinata was young, and his father still around, he had begged for a window overtop of their stove and table, so that they can look out and watch the people go by. The window still remains, sawed out in a misshapen rectangle without glass panes, a wooden board leaning beside for when the nights become cold.

Hinata kisses his mother on the cheek as she rubs her tired eyes, unruly hair pulled away from her face. She’s holding Natsu, despite her having grown too big to necessitate being carried anymore, but uses her free arm to wipe a smear of grease from Hinata’s cheek as he stuffs his bag with his school books once more.

“Do you need me to pick up anything on my way home?” Hinata asks her, tugging on the stuck zipper until the bag is shut closed.

His mother shakes her head, setting Natsu down as she cracks an egg into their cast iron pan. “No… no— I don’t think you should be going to that market alone,” she tells him. “Besides, we should be okay for another few days.”

“If you say so,” Hinata tells her, flashing a smile as he slings his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll see you after!”

“Come straight home, okay?” she calls, leaning through the makeshift window as Hinata slams the heavy door behind him, the sharp _clang_ of metal on metal not alien in the already bustling surroundings.

“I will!” Hinata promises, walking backwards for a few steps before turning to focus on the way in front of him. People in coats that cover half of their face and half of the expression that comes along with it shove past with bundles of food in varying degrees of freshness. The ocean is particularly loud today, crashing and leaving the city’s lower levels to groan like old bones after a storm. It’s practically a whisper, however, when compared to the shouting up ahead. Hinata pushes through the gathering crowd and reaches into his coat to grab his identification card, holding it tight to his chest until he catches the eyes of a military official.

“No card, no access up!” she shouts, smacking a withered looking man on the nose as he tries to pass through. The beggars and less fortunate will be here for another hour before being chased off, lacking a card to get them the luxury of travelling up to the next level. They’re out of work and likely out of home, standing on their last legs before being pushed lower. The next level isn’t quite halfway to the surface, but is as high as Hinata has ever been or is allowed to go. The high school draws all the kids from the levels below and several above, gaining Hinata enough security to obtain a card to ascend. He hands it to the woman, who turns it over a few times before scanning it with the butt of her gun. When a blue light begins to flash, she passes it back and pushes him into a metal cage of an elevator, securing the door closed despite the hands reaching to get in. Hinata gulps as a woman screams, the mechanisms already beginning to groan as he’s lifted one story higher.

From there, it’s a rush of darting through working bodies, through the labour workers headed up and down to the various factories and industrial parks in this end of town. Here, the ceilings stretch higher, motors rev and people laugh, weathered faces looking him up and down, haggard labourers eyeing him up while gang members rush past, hoods up, darting from shadow to shadow. Hinata can only identify them through what the school has taught him— tattoos, wide smiles, bloody knuckles. No good, excess, the rust of the great system that holds the city up. Hinata doesn’t think too much about it. Right now, his only worry is making it to school before the first bell.

The school is an older building fashioned from brick and beam alike, metal framing showing wear now that the masonry has corroded. There are halls completely empty with windows shattered and boarded up, but the main entrance is still functional and pooling in a few stragglers. High school is a funny concept when the factories and labour sites hire as young as twelve years, but it’s a free pass into a higher level that provides a roof that only leaks in the rain and gives Hinata a purpose besides being his mother’s extra set of hands. Her worry lines only deepen when he doesn’t leave, as if the thought of never letting go is more terrifying than the unknown she accepts when he leaves her sight. Either way, Hinata skips the steps and climbs towards the front door, closing it behind him and maneuvering the linoleum floors to the classroom where he’s expected to be.

There’s only four other kids today, two sleeping, the other two in various states of boredom as one uses a pencil to carve something into a desk. It isn’t hard to see how Hinata has landed himself the title of best student when the other don’t show up beyond the days needed to be considered enrolled. The classroom is lit by bulbs with broken glass, the light flickering every so often as the various surrounding factories vy for electrical power.  Hinata takes his seat moments before his weary eyed teacher does, smiling as she drops her briefcase down onto the desk and shucks off her coat. She looks up over her half rimmed glasses and sighs, pausing as she meets Hinata’s eyes.

“There’s someone here for you,” she drones, continuing the process of setting up the day’s lackluster lesson. “They’re in the headmaster’s office. Bring your bag with you.”

Hinata blinks, confused and instantaneously anxious. There’s not many things he’s done to warrant trouble— not here, anyways— and the prospect of punishment is one that has him already preparing for disappointment and shame. Hurriedly, he gathers back up his things and slips back into the hall, passing kids smoking hand rolled cigarettes in the stairwell as he jogs up to the headmaster’s office, a place he’s never visited before. The door is textured to appear wooden, giving away its true nature with the echoing sound of metal as he raps his knuckles against it, quickly settling back on his heels. Less than a moment passes before it’s opened, revealing not the stout figure of the headmaster, but a woman, dressed in a tight, angled pencil skirt with a sharp blue blazer, both garments spotless and reminiscent of the characters in the comics Hinata reads.

“Shut the door behind you,” she says, voice commanding his attention before Hinata even sees her face. He does so without argument, the door scraping closed with a single shove as he clears his throat and nervously stares at the woman’s back.

“I… I was asked— _told_ to come here,” Hinata says, swallowing a knot in his throat. He lets his eyes flicker around the room— there’s a large painting of a mountain framed on the wall and a green chalkboard standing in one corner, a mathematical equation scrawled out across it in chalk. Out of habit, Hinata begins to work it out in his head, lips moving silently as the woman suddenly turns, startling him enough that he jumps.

“Solve it,” she says, tossing him a piece of chalk. Hinata catches it, sighing when he doesn’t fumble it and make a fool of himself, and walks over to the board, confusion subdued by the simplicity of the request. The board is tall, tall enough that to start the equation, he’s left to stand on the tips of his toes to write. The woman gives him no calculator and watches him intently as he begins to work out the problem, like knots from his mother’s back, scribbling side calculations in the empty space and erasing mistakes with the sleeve of his sweater.

Math is… strange. It’s logical in its processes and yet complex when the smallest details are left unchecked, a game of spot the difference and a puzzle wrapped up into numbers the undeniably torturous sound of chalk scratching the board. Hinata thinks he sees the woman flinch, and smiles back at her apologetically before reading over the equation once more, eyes darting from line to line before he drops the chalk onto the ledge.

“Is that all?” he asks, turning to face the woman. She stares down at him with a look of satisfaction in her eyes, pleasant surprise written in how her brow quirks as she opens her blazer and pulls out a card.

“You’re no longer enrolled in this school,” she tells him, not pausing to assess Hinata’s shock as she hands him the card. “You’ll be attending a school on the highest level, now. Aoba Jousai Academy.”

“Wh-what?” Hinata exclaims, taking a step back. “A school on the surface?”

She nods curtly. “We were informed of your smarts, and figured you’d be a waste here. I’ll need to destroy your old identification before this one becomes binding,” she explains, holding out the card once more. “It is free of charge, as the government will be covering all costs in your exceptional case. You’re expected to show up at eight am, sharp. I will be there to escort you to your class.”

Hinata takes the card from her hand, wordlessly trading his own away. This one has a shimmer to it, the material foreign and strong, somewhat transparent and displaying the same photograph as before. He turns it over in his hands, staring at the letting that flashes on the back.

_RESIDENT: LEVEL 33_

_ACCESS: FULL, ON ORDER BY AOBA JOUSAI AND SUZUMIYA NANAMI_

Hinata stares back up at the woman, confusion making way for sheer excitement and gratitude as his eyes widen. “Are you… Suzumiya?” he asks. The woman nods. “I— I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t know what to say, I—”

“There’s no need,” she says, snapping Hinata’s old card in half. “You may return home for the day if you’d like. If you need anything else, my name is on the card.”

“Are you the headmaster of Aoba Jousai?” he asks her, tucking the card into his coat.

The woman looks him up and down before shaking her head. “I work with the board. It was a pleasure to meet you, Hinata. I will see you tomorrow.”

With that, she passes him by, leaving the office with only the click of her heels on the cracked linoleum to remind Hinata she’d even been there. He stares, wordlessly, at the board in front of him, at the equation solved, at the window fogged and dirty. He looks to his shoes, worn, with holes, and to his hands, a little cold, shaking ever so slightly with anticipation as his mind reels to comprehend all that had happened in the few minutes.

No one stops Hinata as he wanders back out of the school, despite the few teachers he passes. He and his thoughts remain uninterrupted as he begins to wander, hesitant to head back home now that freedom has been bestowed upon him. In the shadows of a building that shakes with the mechanics inside, Hinata pulls his card from his coat and turns it over in his hands, watching the technology inside of the glass make the information appear and dissipate as he looks over the back. With this, he can climb to heights he’s yet to even imagine. With this, he can view the city from above, and for the first time in his life, truly look down.

—

It wasn’t always this way.

In the years before the world fell apart, before the ice caps melted and before the world became a tidal force of disasters, natural and otherwise, the former Tokyo was a thriving city. But in the sliding slope of destruction and corruption, in the face of nuclear fallout from warfare and meltdowns alike, in the aftermath of ten hurricanes in one year and rising waters, the city of Old Tokyo became a wasteland. From its ruins, in an echoed harmony of the human race’s resilience all around the globe, Neo Tokyo rose, lifted up above the encroaching ocean by levels and levels of steel beams. Each level below the top— dubbed _surface_ by anyone who had so much as breathed the culture of the levels underneath— became less and less established. Where the world’s resources poured on the surface to create skyscrapers and holograms, robots and technology to enrich life, the lower levels were left abandoned, no more than a convenient place for the poor and the less sightly workings of the city.

Over the years, the divide began to grow, until the surface became a lockdown safe haven for those with the means to afford it. Purged of the homeless and the wanderers, the surface flourished while the lower levels suffered, until boundaries were set to keep the levels in order. Identification cards, specifying which levels of the city were available for a citizen to access. The ultra rich, who can afford the tax and living cost on the surface, carry their shiny identification cards like an afterthought— rarely checked, rarely used— while in the lower levels, people carry their cards like lifelines. This divide is how a country running on money and the control of the masses becomes utopia. This is how a city with the world’s eyes watching it’s magnificence becomes dystopian.

—

Hinata Ayame, Hinata’s mother, looks down at the card, their household blanketed by a rare silence. He didn’t wait to tell her when he finally arrived home, but there was an unspoken agreement that when Natsu was tucked in and fast asleep, they’d need to talk once more. So now they sit, with a crackling radio resting on the stove playing pop music from an old mp3 player, his mother holding his card in her worn, worker’s hands as she inspects the text on the back. She seems curious with the way the test moves, with how the glass lights up and darkens and how can go from near transparent to opaque at a moment’s notice. They are not as poor as others, but Hinata has never seen such an object, has never known his mother to be acquainted with any technology of the sort.

“How will you know if it’s real?” she asks him, not looking up as she continues to rub her fingers over the glass. Her voice is quiet, the way it only gets when she’s worried, when her thoughts cloud her thoughts and leave her straining to protect what she cares for. Where some see paranoia Hinata sees love, sees devotion, sees a woman stronger than any he’s ever met.

“It’s real,” he assures her, leaning over the table to press his finger on the glinting insignia of the city. “See? It’s the same brand on the other cards.”

“People fake them, you know,” she warns, finally looking up. There are bags under her eyes that leave her brown skin tinged with purple.

“But it shimmers, just like ours do,” Hinata says, tilting the card from side to side. “Red to blue. Red to blue— it’s _real_ mom.” He watches as she worries her lip between her teeth, and sighs. “C’mon, I’ll know when I try to go up there tomorrow. There wasn’t a choice to turn it down, afterall.”

Ayame drums her fingers on the table, light, as not to wake Natsu. Outside, something rumbles, the telltale rev of an engine shaking their home as she finally sets the card down.

“I’m going to go there with you tomorrow, then,” she tells him. “See you off. You— I want to be there for you. This is… it’s _monumental,_ Shouyou, but I…”

What she means lies unspoken in the air. _You could get hurt. You’re not from there. This is unknown. I’m scared._

Hinata smiles, grabbing his mother’s hand in his own, holding it between his palms. “I’m gonna be better than fine,” he tells her, squeezing tightly. “And I’m gonna tell you all about what it’s like up there, and bring back little souvenirs. It’ll be like a vacation, only it’s during school hours, and I come back every night to see you.”

Ayame breathes heavily from her nose, eyes drifting towards the radio. She stretches over, shutting it off and letting the music fade as her fingertips linger, body pulled in a stretch that has her chair precariously tipped onto one leg. Finally, she rocks back, eyes travelling over to HInata with a smile stretched across her face.

“Oh, Shouyou,” she sighs. “My brilliant Shouyou—  you’re gonna do wonderfully up there. I know it.”

Bashful, Hinata laughs, rubbing the back of his neck as relief washes over him. His mother’s happiness, coupled with his own excitement about a world never explored, never seen. All of his wariness is drowned out by the increasing reality that he’s made it beyond what he was supposed to be confined to, that by this time tomorrow he’d had risen beyond his roots.

Ayame stands, ruffles his hair, and boards up the tiny window in their kitchen. “You should get some rest,” she tells him, turning back as she begins to pack up for the night. “And use your alarm clock so you aren’t late, okay?”

Hinata nods, brightening the room enough that lights aren’t needed. He washes up and changes into sleep clothes, crawling into bed next to his sister after setting his alarm. In her sleep, she rolls up against him, little body pressed to his side. His mother had talked about getting her a bunk in the space above her bed now that’s she’s beginning to hit growth spurts, but for now, Hinata embraces the familiarity of his family’s closeness and eggs himself to fall asleep despite his racing mind, listing to the pulse of music from somewhere else and the hum of motors from someplace unknown. When sleep finally reaches him, he is thankful, mind slipping from him as his thoughts slow to a halt.

—

The elevator officer is a different one today, one who double takes when Hinata hands him his card and looks him up and down in disbelief. Hinata had dressed his best for the occasion— clean black pants and a white button down too tight around his arms. His shoes are his regular sneakers, scuffed and worn from use, but he’s as nice as he’ll ever appear. The officer finally scans his card, eyebrows raising when it lights up blue, and hands it back to him, throwing open the elevator and slamming the metal cage shut.

“It’ll be a few minutes to get up there,” he tells him as the mechanics begin to groan, elevator already rising. “You’ll get scanned on your way out.”

Hinata nods, watching as the officer and the beggars pushing back against him become smaller and smaller until the next level blinds him, pushes through temporary darkness before resurfacing at another level. The elevator doesn’t stop, continuing to rise, picking up speed as the machinery hoists him higher, each level passing and leaving him to gaze through the bars at a life he doesn’t know. Not all levels use this shaft, leaving Hinata, more often than not, to stare at steel reinforcements or empty space, until suddenly, he’s not.

Instead, he catches the glimpse of a boy, brown hair wind strewn in a way that works, bright red jacket standing out next to the rust around him. Hinata furrows his brows as he watches him climb through a section without flooring effortlessly, standing on a suspended steel beam for a moment before jumping to reach one above him. It’s all Hinata catches, the strong muscles of his arms as the jacket falls back, the pinch of his nose in determination, before time catches up and the elevator rises too high for Hinata to see.

Hinata doesn’t have time to understand what he’d seen. It takes only another five minutes for him to reach the end of the line, where the metal doors open and woman awaits, gun visible in its holster at her hip. She holds out her scanner and Hinata holds out his card— another blue light flashes, and the woman nods, letting him through.

Hinata stumbles out, looking around the new room. It’s enclosed, with stark walls painted a shade of grey that shines under the harsh lighting. His footsteps echo on smooth, clean tile as he walks towards a door at the end of the room, blinking still as his eyes adjust to the light. It swings open automatically as he approaches, leaving him to startle before heading forwards, like an animal out of hiding, towards the true surface.

What strikes him first is not the blinding morning sun, because it happens to be overcast, and Hinata has seen the sun before, on the edges before the levels drop off into ocean. No, what strikes him is the air he breathes— clean, light, leaving no lingering taste on his tongue. It fills his lungs in a way that doesn’t hurt, that leaves him unsure and aware of how much he doesn’t belong. Tentatively, he looks up, blinking through the morning haze to see a hundred buildings, towering above homes— real, _actual_ homes— so high they seem to blend in with one another. Highways slip between them where cars pile up in neat lines, trains whizzing past on separate rails beside them making even them seem slow. Hinata realizes then he’s never seen a car in motion, that he’s never had anything this tall to tower beneath, that there are people all around him and that they’re all living in a world alien to his own. In the morning, neon signs seem dimmer, but shine all the same, guiding his eyes up towards the multitude of buildings in the skyline until his eyes reach the epicentre.

Something black and sleek towers above it all, a thin, pyramid shaped structure that fades into the haze. Beside it, two larger towers rise, with windows already bright and signifying occupants despite the earlier hour. Hinata squints and takes a step closer, mumbling an apology as he bumps into a man jogging past, eye focusing on the country’s flag mounted at the buildings centre.

The city sprawls out around him as he makes use of the rest of the hour consulting light up maps with touchscreens and flashing promotions for perfumes, eventually making it onto one of the whizzing trains that takes him further into the heart of the surface. His mother had given him money before leaving, more than they ever bring for groceries, and made sure that he tucked it somewhere safe before heading out. It was a few hundred yen for a week’s voucher, leaving him with half of his original amount and a vague idea of how to operate the strange checkpoint systems and busy crowds. Eventually, an automated voice announces a stop _named_ after the very school, and Hinata pushes his way through, slipping through the many bodies engrossed with screens or conversation to pay him any mind. Once his feet touch the steady ground of the platform, he’s left to gaze up green grass and polished stone steps leading up to a school made almost entirely of glass, reflecting the morning clouds back in an image of purity that leaves Hinata reeling. It’s _immaculate,_ like everything else here, and he staggers forwards in a trance as he makes his way to the main gates.

There aren’t many people around, much less students, making Hinata aware of how early he arrived. Teachers file through, however, walking unchecked through the gates wearing suits and ties and carrying steaming cups in their hands, moving faster than Hinata and narrowing their eyes at him as he bumbles forwards. His shirt seems less white and more yellow now, leaving him anxious as he finally reaches the gates.

With a deep breath, he takes his first step through.

He feels no different on the other side, finally taking a moment to release the tension from his shoulders as he gazes around at the courtyard. He spins in a slow circle, gaze tilted upwards until he faces the gate once more, gaze falling back down to fall upon a person— familiar, but unexpected.

It’s the boy from before, red leather jacket pushed up to his elbows, lips wrapped around the stem of a lollipop as their eyes meet. Hinata freezes, taking in the sight of his apparent state of disarray— the shirt and blazer with buttons undone, the checkered pants rolled up to expose ankles, the eyes half lidded and near bored. Slowly, he pulls the pulls the sucker from his mouth and licks a stripe up the side. His lips and tongue are stained a deep red, the same colour as both the sucker and his jacket, making Hinata blush even before his mouth tilts up into a smirk.

With that, Hinata spins around and rushes towards the school, cheeks burning, head spinning with confusion. He can feel the boy’s eyes on his back as he hurries, questions looming over him as he runs up the steps towards the front door. _Why is he here? What was he doing in the lower levels? Why would he try to sneak up, knowing he could be caught?_ There’s something almost haunting about the inherent secrecy that surrounds him, that plagues Hinata’s mind with flashes of his back, his eyes, his body, standing ever so still on a beam thin and as rickety as the nation’s current state.

It’s hard to keep the boy out of his head even as he’s faced with the sight of the curt Suzumiya, the one who had brought him here in the first place. She’s smoking when Hinata catches sight of her, otherwise clean cut appearance oddly contrasted by the way she hastily flicks her ashes away into a nearby tin outside of the door. Once their eyes meet, she drops the butt into the trash and affixes a paper-plastic smile to her face, straining and yet not meeting her eyes.

“It’s good to see you again,” she tells him, the words empty. Hinata nods, eyes  darting to the shiny wrapped package under her arm. When she spots him staring, she simply hands it over, leaning off of the wall. “Your uniform— complimentary of the board. Any other pieces will need to be paid for. ”

Her heels click as she walks towards the double doors of the school’s entrance, Hinata looking over the package as they swing open to allow them access. The interior is bright, with walls painted white and untarnished by wear or marks. The floor shines, freshly waxed and a soft shade of blue reminiscent of the ocean water. There’s a building marked as the main office to one side and a large staircase beyond it, the hallway continuing to wrap around a corner. No students linger, staff members walking by, idly chatting in their absence. A million questions swarm through Hinata’s mind— where each door leads, what each bulletin board advertises, where his classes will be. His first stop is a boy’s washroom to change into his uniform, however, clothes stuffed back into his backpack and shoes tied along the strap by the laces as he changes into the black ones provided. He’s shown the five different floors, the various gymnasiums and fields, the laboratories for different sciences and all of the tech inside of them.

Indeed, the technology is what surprises him. He isn’t naïve to its existence solely due to the influence of the magazines bought from markets and remnants thrown away that end up in his neighbourhood, but to witness the sight of glass screens instead of chalkboards and state of the art computers in the library is as much of a culture shock as the vending machines with their thousand different colours and automated voices are. Distantly, Hinata wonders about asking whether they’re stocked by the week or the month, before chiding himself for even thinking that's a concern in the moment.

He’s left scrambling backwards into a wall, naive or not, when he spots a machine rolling across the ground, white and polished and roughly the same size as his sister. It swivels towards him, plays a small jingle, and turns away, his guide sighing deeply before motioning for him to get off the wall.

“It’s a patrol drone for making sure students don’t sneak out of class. There are others for cleaning. You’re likely to see them very often, so it’d be best not to be surprised,” she explains, continuing forwards, Hinata on her heels, still giving the machine a wide berth. “Are there not drones in the lower levels?”

Hinata shakes his head. “No no, there are! They just… look different,” he tells her. He doesn’t include that most of them include guns or blinding lights or hang off of steel beams around the markets, or that they make grinding noises like jammed trash compactors as they move.

Students have begun to filter through the halls, laughing and bickering and dressed in the same manner as Hinata. They carry bags over their shoulders without stains or holes, hold soccer balls in their hands or crowd around mirrors and lockers, snicker and take pictures with cell phones. Hinata is given a locker near the end of the row, a towering thing with a punch card combination without dents or issue. The inside is clean, as everything here seems to be, and he’s able to place his bag and shoes inside without problem.

Suzumiya leads him to back through the halls towards his first class, handing him a schedule to follow as they go. Hinata can feel eyes rolling off of him, can feel the stares of his peers, not malicious, but simply interested. Eventually, they’re stopped while rounding a corner when Hinata smacks into someone hard enough to nearly trip him, the taller boy laughing as he steadies his hands on Hinata’s shoulders and smirks.

“Steady on your two feet yet?” he asks, lazy lidded eyes looking down at him teasingly. He’s got a good twenty centimeters on Hinata, even when guessing conservatively, making him a near tower that looms over Hinata as he leans back, hands stuffed in the pockets of his blazer. Hinata takes in the sight of a uniform slightly disheveled but spotless, bubble gum toned hair and clever eyes, cautious but curious of the newcomer. To his surprise, however, Suzumiya begins to apologize.

“Ah, Hanamaki, I’m deeply sorry,” she says, voice smooth and a pitch higher than Hinata is used to hearing.

Hanamaki waves it off, leaning up against the wall. “S’not a problem.”

“Of course, of course,” Suzumiya hums as she stands, back straight, tone laced with none of the curtness Hinata had earlier heard. “Say, did your mother ever mention embursing the board again? Her last donation was very kind and—”

“I’d suggest asking my mother herself,” Hanamaki interrupts, flashing a quick smile. Suzumiya begins to ramble in respective charm, and in her distraction, he looks over to Hinata and fake gags, rolling his eyes. “If that’s literally all you had to say then…”

“I won’t take up anymore of your time,” she assures him, smile twitching slightly. Hinata stifles a giggle that doesn’t go unnoticed by Hanamaki, who makes a face discreetly before coughing into his elbow while Suzumiya continues. “I should finish escorting this transfer student to his class, and I imagine you are on your way to your own.”

At that, Hanamaki’s eyes light up, his attention further turning towards Hinata. “Oh? Transfer, huh? Where’re you from? Second day after summer break, what, you miss the first?”

Hinata rubs the back of his neck as it heats up, his sputtering cut off by Suzumiya gripping his shoulder tightly, nails digging through his uniform enough to hurt. “It’s nothing you should be concerned with, I assure you. I— we will take our leave.”

Hinata is pushed forwards, and begins following Suzumiya’s guidance away from Hanamaki, who once again is left to roll his eyes. Taking one last glance over his shoulder, Hinata watches as he points towards Suzumiya’s turned back and mouths _kiss ass_ before turning and continuing on his way.

The entire situation, as bizarre as it was, is overshadowed by the looming anxiety surrounding his first class being mere footsteps away. Suzumiya takes a step back and drops her smile, intimidating aura returning in full force as she fixes a strand of hair behind her ear.

“This is where I leave you,” she tells him, voice slipping back into its business tone. “I should remind you that while you are here on scholarship, your grades shouldn’t slip below an average of eighty-five percent, lest your privileges be revoked. Otherwise, I wish you luck.”

Hinata blinks, looking between her and the ajar classroom door, heatbeat picking up ever so slightly. “That’s it?” he asks. “But I—”

“That is all you need. If you’d excuse me.” With that, she spins and leaves the way she came, not so much of a goodbye as a cut off as her form becomes lost in the small crowds of students. Taking a deep breath, Hinata resigns himself to being chronically under explained and turns back to face the door. Slowly, he reaches forwards and pushes it forwards, taking a few steps inside to survey the scene.

Students mingle, sitting on desktops and roaming the room informally, most not paying Hinata any mind as he steps forwards. Like most the classrooms he’s seen, the familiar blackboards of his childhood have been traded for glass, flashing news adverts playing alongside a lesson plan written in neat handwriting Hinata assumes to be the teacher’s. As he continues forwards, he catches eyes with a grey haired man in the back who grits his teeth and hoists himself from his desk, making his way over and drawing the many eyes of the classroom towards them both. They begin to slowly hush and take their seats as the finally bell rings, a few stragglers darting in at the last second and shouting out their apologies as the man grabs Hinata’s hand to shake it firmly.

“You must be the transfer student, hm?” he says, grip strong and leaving Hinata surprised at the strength he carries even in his age. He turns back to the class and clears his throat, taking a step away from Hinata while he folds his hands in front of him. “This, class, is our new student. Would you like to introduce yourself?”

“Yes!” Hinata exclaims, relief washing over him at the chance to finally speak for himself. “I’m Hinata Shouyou, and I hope that I’m able to make friends and, um, learn lots!”

“Yes, yes, now take the seat behind Kindaichi there at the back, closest to the window,” he instructs, already turning to the board. “Today we are continuing our line of novel studies by delving into the great works of…”

His voice trails off as Hinata quickly darts through the rows of students, all who appraise him with mixtures between boredom and caution, towards the aforementioned boy with hair that stands upright and oddly turnip shaped. Hinata offers a smile as he slips his books onto the desk and sits down, opening his notebook and paying attention to the lesson whilst also inspecting his new classmates.

It’s hard to remember a time when Hinata had been in a class this full. At its peak, he can remember elementary school days where his classes were stuffed full with bored kids, but it was hard to call that a _class_ when too often it felt like a daycare without toys. Come highschool, the record was ten, which is far surpassed by the twenty-odd students that sit around him, heads tilted up towards the glass board displaying passages of literature or towards their books and laps. Some carry phones and others simply pass notes, but all pay attention in some form, whether with lingering eyes or asking questions. It’s different, and Hinata finds himself mimicking their actions even as he scrawls down passages to remember for later.

Come the end of the lesson, there’s still a few minutes before the next class, leaving the teacher to sit at the back with a book and ignore the sudden outbreak of chaos as people lean over to stare at Hinata, the boy in front of him, Kindaichi, even turning around and offering him an awkward greeting.

“I’ve never heard of a transfer student,” he says as Hinata gathers up his two notebooks, shoving his pencil into the spine. To his left, a boy with dark hair fashioned into a boy leans in closer, wrinkling his nose.

“Did your parents pay your way in?” he asks, looking Hinata up and down. “It’s Kunimi, by the way.”

“Uhm, no, really the opposite,” Hinata laughs, smiling brightly at the small crowd he’s gathered. “I’m here on scholarship! A lady from the board whisked me away like, yesterday. It was pretty unexpected.”

“Where were you before?” Kindaichi asks, tipping his head.

“Karasuno,” Hinata tells him, feeling a swell of pride at how far he’s come.

A few students whisper, confusion clear on their faces. Kindaichi bites his lip while Kunimi simply sighs, tucking a leg underneath him. “Is that on the other end of the city?”

At that, Hinata shrugs, tugging at the sleeve of his blazer. It’s a soft white colour, and while well made, creases and tugs, a sentiment to never being worn before he’s not quite used to. It matches his apprehension as he meets Kunimi’s eyes and sighs. “Well, I guess you could say it’s, uh… under the city?”

There’s a few moments of silence where Kunimi’s eyes widen before whispers begin to break out around him, Kindaichi choking on his spit as he looks Hinata up and down once more. “You're— _you’re from the lower levels?”_ he hisses, as if it’s some kind of taboo to mention.

The realization that divulging his origins so early on may not have been the best move creeps up on Hinata, but he swiftly ignores it for the time being as he continues to fiddle with his sleeve. “Yeah, I— I am.”

“Is this your first time seeing sunlight?” someone shouts from across the room, earning a few rounds of laughter and jests. Hinata furrows his brow, halfway through telling them _no, I could see it from the edges, and it isn’t even sunny today_ before Kindaichi cuts him off.

“Like… how far down were you?” he asks, voice still hushed.

“Level thirty-three,” Hinata tells him, speaking slowly to match his tone.

“Is that near the bottom?” Kunimi asks, one of the only other students not engaged in the amalgamated laughter around them.

Hinata shakes his head. “No no, it’s near the middle,” he tells him.

“But like… top middle or bottom middle?” Kindaichi asks.

“Uh… bottom?” Hinata guesses.

“Oh, so with the rats!” a girl shouts. “Y’know, the rats? Rei says that’s where the government sends all the—”

“Did you have— wait, _do_ you have a house?” someone shouts before ducking away.

Hinata, confused, looks around at the now encroaching crowd, shrinking slightly into his seat. “Of _course_ I have a house!” he exclaims.

A particularly nasty faced boy is cut off by the automated tones of the bell going off, most of everyone carrying their conversations away as they move back to their seats. A sense of uncertainty clouds Hinata as the next teacher makes her way through the door, already shouting orders and handing out a textbook to be passed back the row towards Hinata. His classmates are quieted by her presence, leaving Hinata to catch a break from the relentless questions and jeers as he opens the book to the designated page, only to find a sticky note with the phrase _bottom feeder_ scribbled across.

—

Classes are difficult, harder than Hinata had time to imagine and filled to the brim with playing catch up within his first few days. Combined with a culture shock and aided by the consistent whispers, Hinata can’t help but feel like a hair out of place. His peers gaze at him, appraise him as something alien to gawk at. Names aren’t called as much as they are shared, until the voices around him end up becoming a cacophony repeating his origins over and over again. For as much as Hinata matches pace in the classroom and uniform, he lags behind everywhere else, a stranger in a room full of people with lunches packed full of fresh food, with money lining their pockets and traded in bets over desks during lunch hour.

Despite his uniform, everything Hinata is becomes defined by his home. There is dirt under his nails and grime in his hair, a hungry stomach, a voice too loud. In their eyes, he’s already become _other,_ become the charity case with empty pockets and hungry eyes.

On the one week anniversary of his arrival, Hinata finds himself wandering the halls, chewing on the inside of his cheek instead of bubble gum, listening to snippets of conversation rather than seeking out his own. He’s got his hands shoved into his pockets of a uniform that, despite his best efforts to keep dry, ended up soaked after a particularly stormy night. He dried it as best he could over his space heater, but it’s still damp enough to bring a chill to his skin he’s long since become used to.

He’s figuring out if sneaking up to the roof might bring him some much needed space when a hand grips his shoulder. Hinata whirls around to face another student— taller, older by the look of his defined jaw and wide frame. His dark brown skin is contrasted by the creams and whites of a uniform missing the tie, green eyes softening as they meet Hinata’s.

“Sorry for scaring you,” he says, stepping back and taking his hand from Hinata’s shoulder. Hinata squeaks, blushes at the fact that he just made such a sound, and promptly shuts his mouth, eyes darting around at the empty hall.

“Uhm, who are you?” he asks, speaking slow as he finally gains the courage to talk.

“Iwaizumi,” the boy says, leaning up against the nearby lockers. “Iwaizumi Hajime. I’m a third year and… I heard about you.”

Hinata’s eyes flick down to his forearms, exposed while his blazer and shirt sleeves are pushed up. It dawns on him in that moment that he’s probably going to pummelled, and he suddenly regrets not having immediately darted away.

“Uh,” Hinata says, taking a step away from Iwaizumi. “I’m not sure I—”

“You’re from the lower levels,” Iwaizumi continues, voice quiet and low, juxtaposed by the distant echoes of laughter from a nearby stairwell.

Hinata’s blood runs cold as he freezes up. “Please don’t beat me up!” he yelps, words tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them.

Surprisingly, Iwaizumi doesn’t snicker, step forwards and clock him in the nose. Instead, his eyes go wide for a second before he shakes his head and quirks his lips. “I’m not going to beat you up,” he tells him, half exasperated and half amused. Hinata regains control of his limbs but remains wary, shoulders tense as he stares up at Iwaizumi.

“Th-then what do you want?” Hinata nearly shouts, the absurdity of the situation coming full circle as Iwaizumi crosses his arms and softens.

“To talk,” he says simply. He’s got a demeanour that supports his claim despite his imposing frame, but Hinata’s innate stubbornness wins out.

“Why?”

Iwaizumi looks him up and down once more before sighing, shifting once more so that his hands relax at his sides. “Because,” he says, “I’m from the lower levels too.”


	2. root

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to this au!!!! this time with a chapter that starts to break down some stuff... the estimated word count for this has... uh... increased... (at least, my estimate— mooks guessed higher) SO expect to see some more of this au coming!! we have chap 3 finished now and will probs try to keep backlogging chapters bcuz thats what organized people do right? anyways if you want some good listenings during this fic i recommend blade runner, akira, and devilman crybaby osts. its what i listen to while i write!!! hope u enjoy this chap!!!!!! -kj  
> —  
> hey this is mooks i love this fic and i love oihina have some gay i hope u enjoy the chapt and i promise things’ll get spicie soon

Iwaizumi brings Hinata not to the roof, but to a strange corner of the courtyard next to an unused sports field. They sit in the bleachers with their legs crossed, Iwaizumi offering Hinata an apple as a makeshift peace offering. As he munches away, Iwaizumi begins to explain.

“I don’t live there anymore. But I grew up on level twenty,” Iwaizumi tells him.

A nice breeze blows through Hinata’s hair, shifting away a cloud so that the sun shines down in full force. He squints, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do people know?”

Iwaizumi chuckles, leaning back. “They found out,” he tells him. “But people are less likely to give you shit if you don’t tolerate any of it.”

Hinata blinks. “Oh,” he says. He looks down at the apple, then back up at Iwaizumi, staring at the apparent muscles of his arms and wide shoulders. “Were— _were you in one of the gangs?”_

At that, Iwaizumi actually laughs shaking his head. “No, I wasn’t in a gang,” he says, looking up at the sky. “I just have a friend who was always a bit… scrappy. I picked some things up.”

Hinata nods slowly, continuing to eat his apple. “So why find me?” he says through a mouth full of apple, muffling his words. The point still gets across, and Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to mind.

“I thought we could spend lunch together. I figured you might be outcasted like I was when people found out and might want some safe company. Birds of a feather flock together, right?” he offers. “My friends will be there too, but it’s really just the four of us. They’re personalities, but I don’t think they’ll mind too much.”

Hinata searches his face for any kind of deception, chest fluttering when he comes up empty handed. “Really?” he asks, brightening at the prospect of no longer spending his school days alone.

Iwaizumi nods, rolling out a shoulder. “If you want. It’s up to you,” he tells him. “We eat up on the roof. You’ll find us there tomorrow.”

In the distance, the tell tale ring of the school bell echoes across the yard. Hinata finds himself nodding as he tosses the apple core into a nearby trash can, standing up and finding his balance among the bleachers.

“I’ll be there,” he tells Iwaizumi, smiling wide. The weight on his shoulders begins to lessen, and Iwaizumi stands up beside him, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants.

“Here,” he says, hopping down one of the bleachers to begin climbing towards the ground. “I’ll walk you to class.”

—

The next day, Hinata finds himself counting down the minutes until lunch period begins. His classmates have taken to ignoring him by now, their venom spread by the whispers he hears once the bell sounds and they’re dismissed. Hinata pays it no mind, too excited in the face of making friends to bother listening. He grabs his lunch from his locker and follows the signs for the roof access stairwell, only getting lost once before he finds it. His hasted footsteps echo through the chamber as the bright city lights shine in through the windows. He stops only to take a deep breath before pushing open the door to the outside, blinking in the face of the sun’s rays as his eyes focus on four boys huddled by a planter.

Iwaizumi is the most recognizable, with his jacket folded beside him and his tie loose around his neck. Beside him is a boy with dark curls and another familiar face— Hanamaki— leaning over the dark haired boy’s shoulder to shove a fourth person. And it’s only Hinata’s luck that he recognizes him, too— the boy with the sucker from the lower levels. Devoid of both sucker and red jacket, he bats away Hanamaki’s hand with ease, eyes already focused on Hinata. His face falls from its relaxed state, one brow raising, and slowly, his friends notice him as well, Iwaizumi waving Hinata over with a smile.

“Hey,” he says, motioning to an empty spot across from him. “I’m glad you came.”

“I’m, um, glad you let me,” Hinata replies, unable to look away from his friend. The boy in question looks over him once again before suddenly becoming disengaged, turning his gaze to look out at the city skyline.

“Meet Hinata...” Iwaizumi continues, glancing at Hinata.

Hinata takes the hint, straightening out and gripping onto his uniform. “Shouyou! H-Hinata Shouyou.”

Hanamaki raises two fingers, flashing him a grin. “Hanamaki Takahiro. We ran into each other already. Literally.”

“Try not to injure him anymore,” the dark haired boy snickers. “Matsukawa Issei, but you can call me Mattsun— pleasure to meet you.”

Hinata laughs nervously, pulling out a bruised apple from his lunch. “Really, it was nothing.” His eyes flick once more over to where the nameless boy still sits, a motion that doesn't pass by Iwaizumi. With a sigh, he kicks his shin, garnering his attention.

“Introduce yourself,” Iwaizumi says, rolling his eyes as the boy furrows his brows at him.

The boy sighs, turning once more to stare Hinata down. It feels enough like a glare that Hinata’s skin begins to crawl. “Oikawa,” he says, standing up in one fluid motion. “And I’ve got something I need to do.”

“Boo!” Hanamaki says as Oikawa walks away, already flipping him off. “I won’t let you copy my English homework!”

Oikawa scoffs. “Bold words when you copied it off Mattsun,” he calls back, eyes glinting with mischief. “I’ll see you in class.”

With one final wave, he slips back inside of the school, the door slamming behind him. Hinata looks nervously to Iwaizumi, guilt pooling in his stomach at Oikawa’s reaction. He awkwardly chew his lip as Iwaizumi sighs, peeling his orange.

“Ignore that. He gets like that around new people sometimes,” Iwaizumi assures him, smiling slightly. “He should warm up eventually.”

Hinata lets himself relax slightly, tossing his apple from one hand to the other. “He doesn’t seem like the shy type.”

Hanamaki snickers, leaning forwards onto one elbow. “You’re right about that. He’s just distrusting.”

 _Distrusting._ Hinata can understand that. Someone who illegally travels between levels has every reason to be distrusting, despite the contrast it shows between their first meeting in front of the school. Hinata fights down a blush remembering his smirk around the sucker, taking a large bite of his apple to occupy himself with an action besides thinking of the intrigue surrounding Oikawa.

“So, Hinata, what kind of things are you into?” Matsukawa asks.

“Yeah, when you’re not getting accepted into some academy on a scholarship or whatever,” Hanamaki adds.

Hinata wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Er— I usually end up playing with my little sister. Sometimes we get a bunch of kids together and we all play a game of soccer.” Hinata pauses, trying to come up with something that would seem _normal_ to a bunch of upper level kids, sending Iwaizumi a nervous look. “I read comics sometimes, but the markets don’t sell them all the time.”

“Soccer is fun,” Iwaizumi says. He holds out an orange slice for Hinata to take. Hinata’s eyes light up, mumbling out a _thank you_ as he takes it. “I like boxing, too.”

“You like every sport,” Matsukawa interjects, leaning onto Hanamaki. “Listen, he picked up a baseball bat for the first time in first year and hit it out of the park. We drag him to play on the team every year now.”

Hinata glances down at Iwaizumi’s arms, the sleeves of his uniform rolled up to reveal toned forearms. Being a superstar athlete suddenly makes a lot more sense than a member of a gang, and Hinata can’t help but feel ridiculous for even suspecting it.

“Hiro here is always challenging Iwaizumi to arm wrestling matches on the daily,” Matsukawa continues. “Hasn’t won a single one yet, though.”

Hanamaki huffs as Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “I _used_ to play volleyball in elementary school, but since middle school I’ve been taking dance and _fencing_ lessons, courtesy of _mother._ Doesn’t mean I won’t try to kick his ass every once in a while.”

“Once in a while? You mean every Saturday night?”

The comment earns Matsukawa a shove, and in an impressive display of strength, the two grapple for a few seconds before Hanamaki flops across Matsukawa’s lap. Hinata can't help but laugh as the two instantly go back to normal, smiling as Matsukawa combs his fingers through Hanamaki’s short pink hair.

“Do you like dancing?” Hinata asks, tilting his head.

“Oh, of course. Ballet is amazing. It’s _fencing_ I hate,” Hanamaki says, rolling over in Matsukawa’s lap. “It’s the tamest version of fighting you can get. It’s pointless and bores me out of my mind!”

He shoots his hands up in the air to make his point, whacking Matsukawa in the chin. Matsukawa pays no mind to the occurrence, continuing to play with his hair. “You get to use a sword, though,” he says.

Hanamaki sighs. “Yeah, I do.”

“Doesn’t help you win an arm wrestling match,” Iwaizumi mutters, sipping on his drink.

Hanamaki scoffs in mock disdain, crossing his arms. “I could stab someone, y’know, _if that was allowed.”_

Everyone laughs at that, warm and loud as Hanamaki grins and lazily steals food from Matsukawa's lunch. Hinata tosses his apple core into a nearby trash, cheering when it lands.

“Hey, Hinata,” Iwaizumi says as he turns back, still giddy from his perfect shot.

“Yeah?”

“You should come along with us sometime to go shopping,” he offers. “There’s a lot more places to get comics here.”

“Yeah! Oh my god, we can drag Oikawa along and make fun of the clothes he thinks look cool,” Hanamaki says.

Hinata’s eyes go wide as he gulps, nervously tugging on his sleeves. “I’d love to go but... would— would he be okay with me being there?” he asks.

Hanamaki, Matsukawa, and Iwaizumi exchange glances. In the end, Iwaizumi shrugs. “We can go next weekend. That gives him over a week to come around. If the idiot is still being a jerk, then he can pout in the backseat.” He fixes Hinata with a look. “If he does or says anything to you, though, tell me. I’ll whack him into place.”

Hinata nods. “O-okay. I will.”

“So manly,” Hanamaki coos.

“And violent,” Matsukawa adds.

With that, the bell rings for the next period as if no time has passed at all. Hinata gathers up his things and rises to a stand, stretching out his arms. “I should get going. I know where my classroom is, but the crowds after lunch are a little much.”

“Want me to walk you there?” Iwaizumi offers, standing up as well.

“Ooh, can we all go?” Hanamaki chimes. “It’ll be like a personal escort.”

“Well, um, I just— I don’t wanna make a scene. W-won’t you guys be late for your own class if you do?” Hinata worries, eyes darting from his shoes to the three.

Matsukawa waves him off. “Who cares about that? We pay the school enough money to show up five minutes late.”

Hinata chews on his lip. “If you’re sure—”

“It isn’t a problem,” Iwaizumi says. “C’mon, before _you’re_ late.”

He walks past him, offering a small smile as he props open the door for them all to pass through. As their footsteps fall heavy against the metal steps of the stairwell, Hinata realizes that the laughter he only heard from the halls now belongs to him and his new _friends,_  that their chatter will echo and carry even as they slip back into the main school corridor. They pass by students and helper drones and teachers alike, and with Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki beside him, Hinata can’t feel out of place. Something _clicks_ with them, whether it be their banter or attitudes or understanding of his situation, Hinata isn't sure. But it leaves him feeling elated as he waves to them from inside his classroom, three minutes to spare before class begins. His classmates’ eyes are on him, but there’s less judgment and more curiosity in there gaze, as if they can’t imagine why three third years would ever walk him to class.

Hinata opens his book and pulls out a pencil, still smiling to himself. If they ask, he’ll let them know. For now, he’s content to just let them wonder.

—

One of Hinata’s teachers agrees to stay after class with him that afternoon to go over his work. He’s laid back with high expectations, but luckily doesn’t need much convincing to make sure Hinata is at the same standard as his peers. He walks Hinata through that night’s homework and leaves the classroom unlocked so that he can study once he leaves, an action simple but kind enough that Hinata smiles as he works through various chemistry equations.

It’s only when the sun lowers enough to shine directly in his line of sight that Hinata realizes how late it has gotten. The nerves that come alongside being late to leave are nothing compared to the sight before him, changing every time he blinks. Various hues of pink and orange paint across the sky in brilliance not dulled by the city skyline in the foreground. Neon signs have yet to truly shine, leaving Hinata to simply balk at the sunset as his textbook rests heavy in his hands.

But he has to leave eventually, lest he be caught walking home on level thirty-three in the dark by his lonesome. He slips his things back into his shoulder bag and closes the classroom door behind him, walking down the empty hallways of Aoba Jousai Academy. He passes by one of the many sleek patrol drones and waves nervously, relaxing as it chimes and plays a tune as he walks by. He must not be alone in the school yet— he can hear muted conversation and laughter from other ajar classroom doors. With a sigh of relief, he rounds the corner towards the main entrance, only to find the wind knocked out of him.

Hinata’s back hits the wall before he even realizes what’s happening, eyes blown wide as Oikawa’s hand slams besides his head. Hinata’s body seizes as Oikawa looks down at him, red jacket pulled over his uniform, eyes hooded as he scowls. In that moment, Hinata comes to appreciate how _tall_ Oikawa is, looming over him as he’s pressed between the wall and his body, his lithe frame and broad shoulders. Hinata resists the urge to lick his lips in nervous habit as a blush creeps up his neck, spreading across his cheeks and overtop of his ears.

“Hinata Shouyou,” Oikawa says, and his voice is a low murmur that rumbles through his chest as he looks down at Hinata’s cowering frame. His name falls from Oikawa’s lips as if it were honey, sweet and thick and dripping in luxury Hinata doesn’t know. Oikawa smells like salt and coffee and old leather, and Hinata finds himself consciously pressing back against the wall so that he doesn’t lean forwards to relax into it. He knows he could never relax, not really, not when Oikawa is making a power play in a game Hinata never knew existed. Hinata can be sure of the fear thrumming through his veins as his breath catches. Oikawa shifts closer.

“You live on level thirty-three, with your mother Ayame and five year old sister Natsu. You formerly attended Karasuno High, a thirty-second level high school, the lowest level school and the _last_ school before the levels become a cesspool. You have a knack for math, particularly trigonometric identities, and were the only one to pass in your third year middle school class. You live in a converted shipping crate home, as most residents of your level do. A woman named Suzumiya Nanami from the school board told you of your scholarship to Aoba Jousai Academy one week and three days ago. You only own one uniform set.” Oikawa’s tone shifts between low and sharp, analytic, raising every hair on Hinata’s neck as he unflinchingly stares him down.

“W-what are you— How do you— Why—” Hinata stammers, but is quickly cut off.

“Maybe I’m just observant. Maybe I just picked up on this all by listening in on every conversation that as much as mentions the lower level kid that made it into class two. Maybe that’s why I know this.” Oikawa’s lips split into a smirk, and he leans down further, bringing their heads closer as his chin tilts. “Or maybe I found my way into your school record and took my sweet time dissecting it.”

Shock pulses through Hinata’s veins, body frozen and lips silently mouthing _how_ in repetition. Oikawa licks his lips, smug in the way that he brings their bodies even closer still.

“Now, Hinata, you’re aware that I know _every little thing_ about you, and you know that I don’t trust you as far as I could throw. So, if you’re not who I think you are, you should be prepared to have whatever secret you may be hiding known before you even realize it’s slipped. That’s clear enough, hm?”

Hinata shivers as he clenches his fists, looking straight into the depths of Oikawa’s brown eyes. “I don’t… I don’t get it,” he whispers, tearing his eyes away. He swallows before looking back, the curve in Oikawa’s lip an unspoken taunt that rattles his core. “I— I saw you, climbing between levels. I just— who _are_ you? What… what do you _want_ from me?”

At that, Oikawa’s body tenses, the strain enough to feel in the pocket of air that still exists between their bodies. Hinata shakes as Oikawa leans forwards, bringing his lips a hair’s length away from his ear.

“If you tell _anybody_ what you saw, you’ll find out _exactly_ who I am,” he whispers, breath warm and words burning, leaving Hinata scorched. Flames grow from underneath Hinata’s skin as he attempts to come up with some semblance of a response.

“Are you—” Hinata gulps, and he can’t catch the words before they leave his mouth, trembling and small. “Is— is that a threat?”

There’s a smile on Oikawa’s lips as laughter falls from his mouth, ringing throughout the empty halls and rumbling through Hinata’s chest. He doesn’t dare breathe as Oikawa pushes their foreheads together, eyes boring into his own. Hinata can see his own visage reflected in wide pupils that dilate to better focus on him. Somehow, Hinata can only think of predator and prey, can only see Oikawa as the python sizing him up to swallow him whole.

“Of course it’s a threat,” Oikawa tells him. “I thought you’d recognize one, being from the lower levels and all.”

Hinata grips his pants in a white-knuckled grip and watches amusement flicker through Oikawa’s eyes as he stammers. “I— I nev— I’ve never—”

Oikawa chuckles once more, pulling away and dropping his arm from where it brackets Hinata simultaneously. They’re still close enough that Hinata can’t help but press himself further against the wall, blinking rapidly as Oikawa fishes a wrapped sucker from his pocket. He pulls off the bright pink paper and flicks it onto a nearby locker, licking a stripe up the side as he takes a step back, eyes never leaving Hinata’s.

“I’ll see you around, _Chibi-chan,”_ Oikawa taunts, eyes glinting as he turns on his heel and heads towards the entrance. Hinata still smells strawberry sugar as he watches him go, body still tense as his eyes fix on the image of the dual colour pill embroidered on the back of his jacket. He looks back once as he stops at the doors, eyes lidded as the candy pushes against his cheek. With that, he pushes through and leaves, a blast of humid air hitting Hinata as he watches him disappear into the bustle of rush hour traffic in the busy surface.

Stale air leaves Hinata’s lungs in a heavy sigh, his shoulders dropping as his knees buckle at the loss of adrenaline. He slides down the wall a few feet, shoes scuffing the floor with black as he stops himself from collapsing entirely. Wide eyed, Hinata replays Oikawa’s words over and over in his head, the lilted charm of _Chibi-chan_ and the rich timbre of his laugh. The memories of their bodies pressed oh so closely together leaves the hair on his neck standing tall, his right ear still burning with the heat of those lips nearly brushing his skin.

Hinata has no reason to doubt the gravity of Oikawa’s threat, not when he’s yet to be fazed by even the admission of his own secret. Even so, he can’t deny the flush to his cheeks and the way he continues to breathe heavy, how the emotions that rush through him are tainted with a, perhaps morbid, perhaps insane, sense of curiosity and attraction. Hinata slowly pulls himself up to a full stand, gathering his book bag and slowly making his way towards the station, praying not to run into Oikawa even when he knows he won’t. Still, when he rushes from his stop to the checkpoint to the elevator back down to the thirty-third level, a part of his mind wanders to the taste of Oikawa’s lolly and the taste of his tongue, to whether his hands are as heated as his words when they burn him from the inside out.

At the end of the day, Hinata still isn’t sure if Oikawa really was threatening him or trying to seduce him. It’s just as bad that when he gets home, he has to suppress the blush that hasn’t left him when his mother asks why he’s late.

—

Oikawa didn’t expect _not_ to be chewed out by Iwaizumi the next day. There’s no escaping it— Hinata showed up to lunch the next day flustered and stammering beyond his usual nerves, hands shaking _just_ enough for Iwaizumi’s brows to be raised. Of course, when he asked, Hinata simply stammered out a reply consisting of _I’m fine_ in roughly twelve times as many words, cheeks cherry red and eyes averted. Oikawa ate his own lunch sitting at the roof’s edge a few feet away, snickering to himself at the sight, waving to Hinata when their eyes met, and smiling warmly to Iwaizumi when he was shot a death glare. Who was he if not a man aware of his best friend's reactions?

Which leads him here, in the hallway a few minutes before class begins, humming to himself as Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. He’s taken to chewing on the end of a pen in lieu of something sweeter, watching how Iwaizumi’s brows knit themselves together.

“What the fuck did you do?” he asks, voice a hoarse whisper as their classmates make their way into class.

“Hm? What do you mean, what did I do?” Oikawa asks, still playing coy about the entire scenario. He taps the end of the pen against his lip before tucking it away, leaning up against an unused locker.

“I mean _why_ is Hinata acting as if he’s terrified to even so much as breathe around you?” Iwaizumi asks. He crosses his arms, scowl set in his jaw as Oikawa sighs, a tad bit dramatically.

“Am I not allowed to talk to him?” Oikawa asks, shrugging.

“I don’t trust that all you did was _talk,”_ Iwaizumi hisses. “What’s gotten into you? Hinata’s the _last_ person you should be worried about.”

At that, Oikawa laughs, really laughs, snorting as he leans his head back to hit the locker. “Oh, Iwa-chan, I’m well aware after that conversation. He’s as naïve as they come, trust me.”

Iwaizumi still glares, shaking his head. “Try not to scare him off. He’s a good kid, and you know just as well as I do that him being from the lower levels doesn’t mean a damn thing. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but—”

“I won’t hurt him,” Oikawa says, pushing up to stand straight and holding up his hands in mock defeat. “That’s not my style. I still don't know what to think of him beyond the fact that he’s a charm.” Iwaizumi narrows his eyes, distrust evident even as Oikawa’s grin widens. “Oh, come on, you know I wouldn’t do anything _too_ serious.”

The bell rings out around them, automated and earning groans from students still lingering in the halls. “We’ve got different ideas of what serious means,” Iwaizumi grumbles, walking past him. “Come on, before you’re late.”

Oikawa hums in satisfaction, shoving his hands in his pockets as he follows. Iwaizumi is well meaning, and is among the handful of people Oikawa knows can read him like a book if they were to try. He takes his seat in front of him, leaning back so that his chair presses on the edge of his desk, and ducks the swat aimed for his head with expert precision. As he opens his calculus notebook to the last bookmarked page, he marks down note to himself, mouth quirked as pulls the cap of the pen off with his teeth.

_Show Chibi-chan the night~_

The teacher walks in, and Oikawa flips to a clean page, spinning the pen in his hand, gears turning in his head as he begins to mindlessly copy the equation on the board.

—

The culture of level thirty-three can be summed up as simply bleak. Hinata strolls through the market with his mother and sister at his side, eyeing vendors whose stands are left empty, whose shutters are drawn. The turn out today is less than usual, with the butcher gaining the most traction. Scrap sellers pawn off what junk they’ve scavenged that may be worthwhile, and though there are less of them displaying what goods they've crafted, his mother seems not to notice. She hums and elbows through the shouting crowd at the butcher to grab meat she reserved earlier on, holding it high above her head lest someone snatch it as she walks back towards Natsu and Hinata.

This is shopping for them— life day to day where they vy for anything to keep them alive. His mother spends the rest of what money she brought on base ration packs someone obtained in bulk before pulling them along to head home, heads down and eyes averted from the watchers with arms outstretched. Hinata has seen one too many guns pulled at the expense of food to ever display it so blatantly, tucks the rations in his jacket as his mother hides the wrapped meat.

It’s why, when the day comes for him to go shopping with the third years, he worries. He doesn’t own clothes that could compare to those worn in the upper levels, besides his uniform. Even the people idly walking in the streets wore dry, clean clothes, not the tattered and damp sweaters Hinata has known all his life. Everything carries a scent to it, one that smells like heavy cloth and salt, one that is comforting until it begins to grow pungent with mildew.

The second issue, of course, is money. His mother’s job answering customer support calls on a rickety old phone in a call centre, talking about technology she’s never seen, earns enough money that they usually don’t go hungry more than once a week. It leaves spending money tight for things like a new comic or a handful of candy, let alone the wares available on the upper levels.

Hinata bites his lip and tugs on his cleanest sweater. It’s a shade of bright orange that matches his hair perfectly, making him look rather like a tangerine, but it’s a size large rather than a size small and Hinata figures that’s less uncomfortable when hanging out in the richest place in the country. He grabs his one pair of jeans that still fit, a pale shade of blue worn comfortable with age, slips them on, and heads off.

Iwaizumi had told Hinata to meet them at the school gates that Saturday afternoon, roughly three o’clock. Despite there being no school, it was a place they could all find easily, leaving Hinata grateful that there was no solo adventuring involved. As he crosses the street and breaks free from the crowd of people enjoying the blinding sunlight, Hinata spots the opalescent gates of Aoba Jousai Academy. There, standing under them, is Iwaizumi, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a touchscreen phone. He’s wearing a thin windbreaker and a tight shirt, along with a pair of sports jogging pants and bright blue sneakers, a ball cap resting on his head to shield his eyes from the light. He looks up once Hinata approaches, pocketing his phone as a smile graces his face.

“You’re early,” he says, surprise evident in the raise of his brows as Hinata rubs the back of his neck. “No one else has gotten here yet.”

“You were here first,” Hinata retorts with a simple smile. “Are they usually late?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head, leaning back onto the gate. “Oikawa, sometimes, but not immensely. Matsukawa and Hanamaki _usually_ keep each other in check. But since they got together last year, they’ve also became each other’s worse enablers.” Iwaizumi shoots him a deadpan look that tells Hinata all he needs to know. He laughs, imagining Iwaizumi’s exasperation waiting for the two while knowing there was no way they’d be on time.

Iwaizumi sighs, leaning up against the gate. “We’re getting coffee before we do anything. Otherwise, I won’t be able to stay awake.”

Hinata perks up at that, tilting his head with a smile. “I’ve never had coffee before. My mom never buys anything like that,” he tells him. He smiles before looking back out over the crowds, at the the plants that grow out of fountain bordered planters, to where two familiar faces walk towards him.

“There they are,” Iwaizumi says, spotting Hanamaki and Matsukawa. “Oi! Over here!”

Matsukawa taps on Hanamaki’s shoulder, pointing in their direction. They both wave before dashing across the crosswalk seconds before the opposing light turns red, traffic whizzing by loud enough that it nearly hurts Hinata’s ears.

“Yo,” Matsukawa says, removing one hand from the pockets of his dark leather pants to tuck around Hanamaki’s waist. “Are we waiting on Oikawa?”

“Seems like it,” Iwaizumi says with a huff. “He was probably up all night again and ended up sleeping in. We’ll be lucky if he’s here in half an hour.”

“Iwa-chan, you have such little faith in me!”

All four jump, whipping around to see Oikawa leaning behind them, a smug grin playing on his lips at their surprise. Hinata doesn’t let his shoulders drop like the others as he stares at Oikawa’s choice of outfit— a form-fitting black shirt and cropped leather flight jacket lined with light cream fur and dark, torn skinny jeans that show just how toned his thighs are. Hinata gulps, purposefully not meeting his eyes even as he feels them scan over his already red face. Iwaizumi explains their plan to get coffee to the others, but Hinata barely listens, heart pounding all the while. He’s distracted enough that he ends up staying still while the rest of the group starts moving, lagging behind until Oikawa’s hand brushes up against the small of his back.

“Hurry along now,” Oikawa teases, pushing him forwards slightly before slipping away.

Hinata barely contains a squeak as he stumbles forwards, blush travelling all the way up to his ears. He looks up at Oikawa, who has already begun to bug Iwaizumi by flinging himself over him, and breathes deeply as he jogs to catch up.

There’s a coffee shop at the corner of the next block, underneath a screen that flickers between several different advertisements— one shows a woman dramatically reducing her facial bone structure in a sleek, clean bungalow; another, a neon bright flickering image of two models wrapped up in each other's arms; one more, a small, white robot watching two young children. It's foreign and odd and hurts his eyes, making him dizzy as he’s jostled by another stream of passerby.

Hinata’s looks of awe at the surrounding city doesn’t go unnoticed. Matsukawa turns to him with a flicker of curiosity in his eye. “Never been around this part of the city before?”

Hinata turns sheepish, scratching the back of his neck in a shy manner. “N-no, I haven’t had the chance yet.”

“Nothing like this down in the lower levels?” Hanamaki asks, tilting his head.

“Nothing as bright or… advertiser-friendly,” Hinata says hesitantly, glancing at Iwaizumi.

Hanamaki grins and leans down next to Hinata. “Iwaizumi keeps all his lower levels stories on the down low. He never tells us _anything,”_ he bemoans dramatically.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Iwaizumi grumbles.

“Okay, so maybe you’ve told us one or two things,” Hanamaki says, waving his hand to point towards Oikawa. “But _he_ hasn’t spilled a _single drop_ of tea.” Hinata’s eyes widen with curiosity as he looks over to Oikawa.

“There’s no tea _to_ spill,” Oikawa quips back.

“Now _that’s_ a lie and _you_ know it!” Hanamaki exclaims, straightening up and leaning into Matsukawa’s space. Matsukawa wraps an arm around Hanamaki’s waist on reflex, dipping his hand into one of his pockets. “All the shit you get into, all the stuff you mention off hand— dude, your past must be _wild.”_

“It sure must’ve,” Oikawa hums, reaching over to flick Hanamaki’s arm. Hanamaki reaches over to swat at him, but Oikawa has already moved, situating himself directly at Hinata’s side. He catches Hinata’s eye, carefree attitude dropping for a moment as his eyes become steely. Hinata’s breath hitches as he shies away, intimidated but _almost_ curious enough about Oikawa’s life in the lower levels to speak up. The glare holds his tongue, heart still pounding once they duck inside the coffee shop.

They’re met with automated screens and a row of machines behind a long counter where people queue, grabbing foaming cups from an assembly line of vaguely personified robots that resemble something from Natsu’s drawings. They sport small screens along the tops that read messages such as _order up_ and _have a great day_ and play strange jungles every time they finish a task. Hinata finally tears his eyes away from one oddity to the next— the ordering screen in front of him which all four third years crowd around.

It quickly scans Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa’s faces with a tiny blue flash, their names popping up on the screen with the option to _order regular_ or _try something new!_ Oikawa leans at the side of the machine, peering his head around to look up and down the menu.

“Get me a triple mocha frappe with extra caramel drizzle,” he tells them.

“One medium triple mocha frappe with extra caramel drizzle, a large iced coffee with an extra shot of espresso,” Iwaizumi recites, fishing out a card from his wallet to scan on the machine. He looks over to Hanamaki and Matsukawa, motioning them forwards.

“Uh— my regular,” Hanamaki defaults, shrugging as he taps his card to the screen.

“And another iced coffee, double shot of espresso,” Matsukawa adds as he holds out his card as well. He turns back to Hinata. “Want anything?”

Hinata blinks, looking up and down the smooth, white interface for any sign of a place to insert his bills. “Does it take cash?”

“No, most things like this don’t,” Iwaizumi explains. “And don’t worry about paying, Hanamaki will cover you.”

“Yeah, we’re on day four of mother not noticing I took her card, so let's see what tips it off,” he grins. Hinata furrows his brow, concern wilting his face as Hanamaki laughs. “I’m kidding! I’ve only ever done that once, and she nearly killed me for it. Do you like coffee?”

“Uh— I don’t— I’m not sure,” he stammers, still processing Hanamaki’s morbid humour. “I’ve never had it before.”

“Do you prefer bitter or sweet?” Hanamaki asks, eyes skimming the menu for something Hinata would like.

“I don’t… _mind_ bitter, but I prefer sweet,” Hinata says.

Hanamaki hums. “How’s a vanilla latte sound?” he offers. “It’s simple enough.”

“Sounds vanilla,” Oikawa adds. He meets Hinata’s eye and shoots him a smile stretched wide that gives Hinata a feeling it’s _very_ fake. “And boring. Add some chocolate. Hanamaki’s paying anyways.”

“O-okay,” Hinata says, nodding slowly as he turns to look at Hanamaki, who finishes the order. It comes up to a price that could buy an entire week’s worth of groceries for him, making his stomach twist. “Thank you so much for paying.”

“No need for thanks, it’s my treat,” Hanamaki says with a grin and a wave of his hand. “Y’know what? We should make a toast to our new friendship. Our latest buddy from the lower levels! That makes, what, over half of our group now?”

“You’re outnumbered,” Iwaizumi tells him, walking up to the cheery robots to grab his and Oikawa’s drinks. “Though I probably don’t count. I don’t live there anymore.”

Matsukawa shrugs. “Close enough.”

“Plus, we don’t even know where _Oikawa_ lives, so it doesn’t matter!” Hanamaki announces, gathering his order of drinks and handing them out. “All we know is he’s able to drive that red monster to his nest and back.”

Oikawa shoots Hanamaki a look that speaks to a level of playful banter as well as a warning. “Let’s not get _too_ excited, Makki,” he says with a click of his tongue, swiping his drink from Iwaizumi’s outstretched hand.

“What’s the red monster?” Hinata asks, the words slipping out before he has a chance to stop them.

“Maybe I’ll show you sometime,” Oikawa chides, looking over his shoulder at Hinata as he pushes open the door.

“Christ, don’t make it weird,” Iwaizumi groans. “It’s his motorcycle.”

“You—” Hinata stops himself, directing his gaze to Iwaizumi and lowering his voice. “He knows how to ride a _motorcycle?”_

“I do,” Oikawa responds, voice clear even as they step out into the bustle of a street cacophony. Hinata freezes, unsure just how closely Oikawa had to be listening to hear that as they make their way towards the metro station.

Trying not to externally freak out in embarrassment, Hinata tentatively takes a sip of his drink, lips puckering at the aftertaste coffee leaves on his tongue.

“How do you like it?” Hanamaki asks. Hinata hesitates, lowering his drink.

“It’s… still kinda bitter,” he says softly, eyes wandering over to the form of Oikawa’s back. “But I like it.”

—

Hinata doesn’t end up buying anything. What money he brought could only be used as spare change if he was so willing to part with it, leaving him to feel small next to everyone else walking past with their arms full and pockets heavy. The inside of the mall looks like something from outer space— glassy storefronts and dome skylights bouncing light in the cavity that is the many arms of the shopping centre. But a lack of money never quelled Hinata’s curiosity before, and doesn’t now. He steps inside nearly every store, eyeing up women’s lingerie and makeup lounges and fourteen different empty technology retailers and ten different clothing outlets. Iwaizumi rarely touches his wallet too, and indulges the exploration, explaining the smaller nuances of escalators and the need for certain products.

“Contact Cameras,” Iwaizumi tells him. They’re milling about a store selling tinted glasses to block out the sun— something mundane and simple that Hinata forgets shouldn't be strange. He was eyeing up a display case with confusion when Iwaizumi approached, voice low as he points to the description. “Basically, they record everything you see and helps recommend places to go, acts as a built in memory, and can be hooked up to filters.”

“Filters?”

Iwaizumi furrows his brow as he thinks. “If… a parent didn't want their kid to see, y’know, _inappropriate content,_ they could have them wear the camera contacts and set it to filter it out.”

Hinata wrinkles his nose. “Sounds… weird. And creepy.”

Iwaizumi turns his head to where Hanamaki stands, trying on various different sunglasses and laughing as he tosses each pair towards Oikawa. “You’d be surprised by the number of people who disagree with you there.”

Hanamaki, in all of his six-foot-something glory, slips off a pair of star shaped glasses and sets them back on the rack. He hip checks Oikawa on his way towards the door where Matsukawa currently loiters before turning back to face Iwaizumi and Hinata.

“Oi! Hurry up, Oikawa wants to update his wardrobe. He’s worn the same pair of jeans that show more skin than they do cover it up four days in a row now!” he shouts, hands cupped over his mouth.

“Aw, no need to be jealous when you’re still denying that you wear lingerie as day clothes!” Oikawa calls back, walking past Iwaizumi and Hinata, brushing against him as he does so. Hinata inhales sharply and prays Iwaizumi doesn’t notice how closely he watches Oikawa leave, how his eyes trail down to where his jeans leave nothing to the imagination. His cheeks heat up at the mere thought and he jogs to catch up before he’s caught drooling.

That makes up the most of their day— bouncing around the seemingly endless mall, passing outlets for high end car and clothing brands alike. Hinata and Iwaizumi windowshop as the others begin to accumulate bags, the five of them finally settling down once the sun begins to set. It’s then that Hanamaki’s phone buzzes from within his coat pocket, chiming brightly as he swipes open the screen to read the message. His eyes narrow as a smug smile splits across his cheeks, drawing everyone in closer.

“Who is it?” Matsukawa asks, attempting to look over his shoulder.

“Yahaba— you know, the underclassman who may or may not be dating the wolfish kid on the baseball team— is throwing a party at his house. His parents apparently got a hotel room for the entire weekend at a casino and left him to his own devices,” Hanamaki gleams. “Naturally, we’re invited.”

Oikawa matches Hanamaki’s grin, leaning forwards onto his elbows. “Do we have time to drop off the bags?”

“Oh, definitely. We can’t show up before, like, nine at _least._ Plus, I wanna change into that top with—“

“The mesh? You left it at my place,” Matsukawa says, resting his chin onto Hanamaki’s shoulder. “We can drop our shit at mine and take my car if someone DD’s.”

“I’ll sleep over too— mother shouldn’t be back tomorrow,” Hanamaki adds. “Iwaizumi, you in?”

Iwaizumi crosses his arms, cracking a smile as he shakes his head. “Yahaba’s _insane,_ you guys are gonna kill me.”

“Boo, that’s a lie!” Hanamaki shouts. He leans over to Hinata. “He’s got a wicked alcohol tolerance,” he stage whispers. “So! Issei’s in, Oikawa’s been in since he was in the womb, and Iwaizumi hasn’t said no. What about you?”

Hinata fidgets with his hands, nervously glancing up at the darkening sky through the windows. “I— I don’t know if I should, it’s getting dark out,” he says. “Plus I don’t know anyone—”

“You know _us!”_ Hanamaki interjects.

“—anyone except you guys.”

From across the table, Oikawa snorts. He pulls a sucker from his pocket and tosses away the wrapper popping it into his cheek. Both feet kick up onto the table, nearly knocking off some of the bags and inadvertently clearing a direct view for Hinata as their eyes lock. He pulls out the lolly, leaving it pressed up against his lips and licking them before he speaks. “What, you afraid of the dark?”

“Oikawa—” Iwaizumi warns, but is quickly cut off.

“I thought you’d be a little braver, Chibi-chan, coming from level thirty-three and all,” he drawls, pushing the lolly past his lips to rest in his mouth, creating a bulge in his cheek. “The big bad surface is a _lot_ brighter at night, you know.” He ignores the daggers being sent his way via Iwaizumi’s glare, choosing to smirk with eyes half-lidded at Hinata’s flustered expression— mouth half open, colour rising across the apples of his cheeks and ears. “Who knows; maybe you’ll get lucky… and you won’t damage that pristine reputation of yours at _all.”_ Matsukawa wolf whistles, earning him a wink from Oikawa as he shrugs. “Your call, though.”

Hinata sputters, syllables falling out before being strung together as Oikawa resumes staring him down, still sucking on the lolly with fervour. Beside him, Iwaizumi huffs out a sigh, placing a hand on Hinata’s shoulder. “If you’re worried about walking home alone, I can walk with you. That is, if you want to go.”

“Such a gentleman!” Hanamaki coos, dramatically throwing himself overtop Matsukawa. “Issei, walk _me_ home too~!”

“No need if you’re coming home with me,” Matsukawa murmurs, kissing Hanamaki on the cheek while he grins.

Hinata only flusters further, looking down intensely at his hands as they scrunch up the hem of his sweater. “I— I mean— I’d— I’d have to call my mom to let her know I’m coming back late.”

“You can just text her, can’t you?” Oikawa challenges, quirking a brow.

“She’s— she’s only got a direct phone line at the factory,” Hinata says, eyes darting up for a second as he gulps. “And I, uh, don’t have a cell phone.”

“You can borrow mine, Hinata,” Iwaizumi offers, sliding it to him. “I don’t mind.”

Hinata hesitates for only a moment before picking it up. At that, Hanamaki whoops, holding out a hand for Oikawa to highfive as Hinata goes through the process of calling his mom. She’s much more excited at the idea than he expects— probably, he figures, due to her worries that he may lack friends. Of course, Hinata doesn’t tell her exactly what he’s about to do, partially because he hasn’t got the faintest idea.

But he looks over to the delighted faces as his friends gather their things and stand up, and can’t help but feel the same. Iwaizumi is still grinning and Oikawa is looking his way more often than not, mysterious and dangerous and oh so enticing. Hinata stops, breathes deeply, and resigns to saying a prayer so he won’t die before they arrive.

—

Yahaba doesn’t live in a four story mansion with a pool and a butler, but he doesn’t live in a shipping container. His house is two stories and sports an entertaining room that now serves as some kind of dance floor, the home bar stacked with liquors of every colour. Flickerbeat synths fade through the sweat slick walls surrounding the vendetta Hinata stands on, caged in with glass overlooking a city in a thousand shades of neon. Holographic women dance on top of skyscrapers flashing a million colours, outshone by spotlights that swing across the hazy night sky in search of something Hinata doesn't know.

Hinata chokes on the scent of his life’s savings being consumed in the form of pink bottles. This is breaking the law in the upper levels— stealing drinks and holding parties for rich kids with almond nails and straight teeth. The inner walls of this house are lined in red velvet. Hinata wonders if the point is to strangle out those not used to the smell of perfume sprayed thick, the sounds of bass speakers booming without a crackle. There is no air on this balcony, not when it’s crafted like a glass enclosure and Hinata the rabbit, sitting pretty behind the glass to look through the other side.

Oikawa makes it worth it, Hinata tells himself, but he can’t believe it during the times when he’s nowhere in sight. A group of five has long since dwindled down to one— a right hook to Hinata’s chest and a left to his heart. He doesn't belong here— not yet. Not among people who slip away from their entitled fresh air to breathe in rooms too small as if it is just an experience and not a lifestyle. Hinata wonders if they’d whisper if he started panicking now. He wonders if Oikawa even knows he's been watching him for the last half hour.

He’s looking like a glass of water while the rest of the room is chewing glass, midriff exposed and jacket pushed down on his elbows. Tight jeans leave long legs a slide for Hinata's eyes to travel down, unabashedly after four fruity drinks and ten minutes of intense panic. Oikawa stands out, because pink lips wrap around a sucker that he bobs in and out from his mouth and no one is watching, no one is gulping and blushing save Hinata whose eyes can't be torn away.

But that doesn't matter.

(It does matter because Hinata wants to lick the sugar off his lips and let him leave stains on his collar and _dear god is he drunk—_ )

It doesn’t matter because Oikawa is a goddamn mystery and keeps looking his way, lips still wrapped around candy, mute to Hinata and mute to the rest of the room. Hinata wants to get closer but waits out the game, because everything with Oikawa is a game at this point, when he pins him against walls at school before even saying hello, when he speaks his name like a _come hither_ while walking the other way. Hinata can't name two things about Oikawa save that he's every bit as infuriating as Iwaizumi has said, can't confirm anything besides the truth that yes, every time he looks at Hinata his entire chest goes aflame.

Maybe his sense of fear is gone because he’s well passed tipsy, sipping what Yahaba had mixed when they showed up twenty minutes after everyone else, heavy but sweeter than the coffee he tried that morning. Maybe he’s past caring because of the novelty of it all— of cool friends and cool boys in cool jeans and a shirt riding high enough for Hinata to see a scar right down the centre of rock solid abs. He drools, only a little bit, no part of his brain coherent enough to scream _danger_ as he goes to bite into the choke cherry, stem pit and all.

Hinata goes to sip his drink only to find it painfully empty. He pouts and looks back up only to find Oikawa missing from his spot against the wall. It’s now taken up by Hanamaki and Matsukawa, who could be just talking or _could_ be making out. Hinata can’t tell when they’re always so close either way. He stares back down at his drink and audibly sighs, sound drowned out by the thumping music but apparently loud enough to garter a chuckle from behind him.

Hinata yelps and nearly falls over, no longer steady on his feet but caught by arms that linger before leaving him to sway. Hinata looks back and pales because of _course_ it’s him, the stick of his sucker poking out from his grin and eyes lidded.

“Y-you scared me!” Hinata exclaims, his blush catching up to him as it burns down his neck.

“Aw, I was just having fun, Chibi-chan,” Oikawa hums, plucking his empty glass from his hands. “You drank number five pretty quick, mhm?”

 _Was that how many he was at now?_ Hinata huffs and turns his head, indignant.

“S’it tastes good,” he mumbles, stumbling on nothing at all. He catches himself this time, shooting a glare at Oikawa as he straightens up. “Why are you— why are you all like… like _this?”_

“Like what?” Oikawa prompts, playing coy with a tilt of his chin. He looms over Hinata and places a hand onto his shoulder, thumb close enough to stroke the side of his fiery neck and elicit a shudder. “You know, you’re awfully cute in that big sweater, Chibi-chan.”

Hinata steps back, rubbing his eyes as he backs up to the edge of the balcony. He instantly regrets the loss of Oikawa’s touch, but refuses to give him an inch. “Don’t call— call me that,” he hiccups.

“Oh? You have a name you prefer?” Oikawa asks, stepping forwards to close the gap. “I like nicknames. Chibi-chan suits you so well, but… if you hate it _so much…”_ The space between them shrinks to nearly nothing as Oikawa leans his hands onto the railing behind Hinata, encasing him, _surrounding_ him in body heat and the scent of leather and cherry syrup. It’s dizzying to Hinata’s already dizzy mind, the closeness, the sight of deep brown eyes up close— so close, in fact, that in all of their lidded glory Hinata can see a tiny scar across each eye. “Maybe I can call you something else. Hina-chan? Shou-chan? Or maybe…” He leans down further, lips nearly brushing against his ear. _“Shouyou?”_

It takes Hinata one, two, three seconds for his already heated face to burst into flame, the fire travelling up his ears and down his neck in seconds. The entire world goes quiet as the intensity of Oikawa’s attention— Oikawa’s voice, deep and sultry, Oikawa’s breath, hot on his ear— shivers through his body. It’s electric in a way that fries every wire in his head, world spinning as Oikawa’s hair tickles his nose. “H-Hina-chan is fine,” he stammers.

“Alright then,” Oikawa says with a smile— the one Hinata blearily recognizes as anything but real. _“Shou_ -chan it is.”

Hinata’s heart nearly stops with how hard it’s beating in his chest. It _has_ to be obvious, even in the dim lighting of the balcony, because Oikawa chuckles and he’s so close that Hinata can feel the vibrations through his own chest. Distantly, in his drunken state, Hinata wonders if this is some kind of weird kink to Oikawa, pinning him up against different surfaces. He berates himself for thinking it so hot that he squirms _just_ as Oikawa pulls away. He fights a whine when he turns on his heel and removes the lolly’s stem from his mouth, flicking it onto a nearby chair as he leaves Hinata where he stands, winded and frozen and resigned to simply waiting for him to disappear into the crowd without another glance his way.

Between the steely glares and taunts to the light touches and sultry whispers, Hinata has never been more goddamn confused in his entire life. If he were sober, he’d call it a powerplay, the way Oikawa acts around him before reminding him how much he really cares. Or does he? It’s a question that leaves Hinata either in the arms of a fucked up angel or a silver lined venus fly trap, or some strange, ungodly combination of the two. The buzz of good feelings and tension— what kind, Hinata refuses to acknowledge even now— leaves him suddenly, and in moments he’s simply _drunk,_ searching for a handhold and Iwaizumi before he makes a fool of himself even further.

He finds Hanamaki first, shitfaced and riding on Matsukawa’s back as he slurs something or another. Matsukawa seems stone cold sober, leading— or carrying, in Hanamaki’s case— them over to Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi sips a beer while leaning near a kid with close cropped blond hair complete with a stripe. He looks stoic and the boy looks _aggressive,_ grumbling a farewell as Iwaizumi walks over to them, chugging the rest of his drink and leaving the bottle on the couch.

“Can you drive us to the elevator?” Iwaizumi asks Matsukawa. No one seems fazed at Oikawa’s absence, and Hinata feels wise in not bringing it up.

“Yeah, of course,” Matsukawa says. “Is it the same one you use?”

Hinata can’t figure out what that means, but Iwaizumi nods. “Should be. They’ve got one reserved for long trips.”

Hinata tunes out after that, following them downstairs, leaning between both Iwaizumi and Matsukawa’s bodies for balance as they make their way to Matsukawa’s car— a black, sleek, two door thing with a backseat small enough for Hanamaki to lay down in. Hinata gets shotgun and Iwaizumi puts up with Hanamaki’s feet digging into his thigh, taking pictures of the way he drools while Matsukawa watches in the rear view mirror at every stop. Here, at ground zero well into the night, the city is blinding. Every light flashes and entices, screaming tag lines and phrases as the billboards continue to scroll between robots and perfume and other useless things. Hinata rubs his eyes and tries not to fall asleep as they leave it all behind, the edge of the surface occupied by sleek, windowless buildings that, while stunning in their own right, exist in the shadow of the city’s nightlife.

They make it to the government level elevator, where Matsukawa says goodnight and Iwaizumi jumps out, opening Hinata’s door and pulling him upright. Together, they show their shiny IDs to the man with a clean cut jaw and crisp uniform who stares at them like they’re crazy. They both fit in the elevator, just barely, Iwaizumi looking at the industrial metal frame with a curiosity as it begins to plummet, wind rushing on through.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Hinata tells him around level 17, words tumbling out before he can stop.

Iwaizumi shrugs as the mechanics creak, the reverb of the wires sounding their descent. “It isn’t any problem,” he assures him, closing his eyes. “I’ll ride back up and visit my parents while I’m down here. I’ve been meaning to.”

Hinata looks at him in confusion. “They don't live with you on the surface?”

“Nah. Can’t afford it,” he tells him. “They bust their asses doing god knows what just to get us a life up there. We get food and rent and the bills paid every month, me and my siblings. You’re not allowed to miss more than twice before you lose the right to live up there. They’ve never missed it. It’s come close, but they’d never let that happen.”

Neither speak for a few minutes, the air becoming cooler as the scent of seawater permeates their noses. “How many siblings do you have?” he asks as the elevator comes to a halt, the woman at the end scanning their IDs once more as they begin to walk down a familiar street lined with sleeping bodies.

“Seven. I’m the oldest. The youngest, Haku, is only two. He’ll be less expensive once he's out of diapers for good, but then they’ll have to pay for his school.” Iwaizumi looks at the shipping container houses, the scrap metal homes. His eyes soften— pity? Nostalgia? Hinata isn't sure what life is like on level twenty, but can’t imagine it’s anything like the surface.

“I’ve got a sister,” Hinata tells him. “She’s five and hasn’t started school ‘cuz it’s basically just free daycare right now and mom’s afraid of leaving her there when she can watch her at the factory.”

They pass a burning fire, the smoke thick and billowing as it’s trapped between the level with nowhere to go. Hinata coughs and Iwaizumi furrows his brow. “Your dad?”

“He left,” Hinata says, and he isn’t sure what’s compelling him to be so open— the drinks, the night, or a friend who understands. “One day he just… never came home.”

“I’m sorry,” Iwaizumi says, quiet and small. “She’s around the age of a few of my siblings— two are older but one’s the same age.”

Water drips from somewhere, a boring, steady patter. _Drip, drip, drip._ Hinata inhales so deep his lungs ache.

“Do you trust Oikawa?” he asks Iwaizumi, stopping in his tracks. His home is close by, but the question weighs on his mind and needs answering somewhere where he knows he won’t wake his sister.

Iwaizumi seems _almost_ surprised, blinking a few times before he answers. “With my life.”

That takes Hinata aback. “Why? _How?”_

Iwaizumi sighs, rubbing his nose. “I— Oikawa doesn’t believe he’s a good person. Maybe he isn’t, but he sure isn’t a bad one,” he tells him. “I can’t explain why I trust him, and I won't tell you to. If anything, I’ll tell you to be careful, because he’s… at the center of something. But he’d never hurt me, and if that’s what you’re asking, then yes, I trust him.”

Hinata’s breath is shaky and nodding makes him feel lightheaded. Iwaizumi lets him lean on his arm as they make the last few steps to Hinata’s house, where a light is still on and his mother no doubt waits for him.

“I can’t figure him out,” Hinata admits, voice soft and almost hesitant as he waits, hand on the handle. “He’s done almost nothing but antagonize me, and I don’t get it. But… I want to. Is that weird? That I want to get to know him better? That I want for him to trust me and to be able to trust him?”

Iwaizumi smiles, knowingly. “He has that kind of vibe to him. I understand,” he says. “You should get some rest. I’ll let you know how bad Hanamaki’s hangover is on Monday. You’ll laugh.”

Hinata cracks a smile, dragging his shoe in the ground. The sole is coming loose now, exposing part of his sock to the rusted metal. “Thanks Iwaizumi. Tell your parents I say hi.”

Iwaizumi nods, taking a step back. “See you at school.”

Hinata waves, and lifts open the door, the grating noise of metal on metal no louder than the rest of the groans of infrastructure around them. He slips inside and closes it, turning to see his mother, fast asleep with her head on the table. With a yawn and as little stumbling as he can, he takes a pillow and blanket from her bed and wedges the pillow under her head and the blanket around her shoulders, shuts off the light, and climbs into the comfort of his own bed. Almost instantly, Natsu rolls over and snuggles up to his side, snoring peacefully and ignorant of every bad decision Hinata has made thus far. With a sigh, he closes his eyes, and sees only Oikawa, leaning down to eat him whole with only his eyes. He succumbs to the image and drifts off to sleep dreaming of just that— him, and only him, dangerous and playful and aloof Oikawa Tooru. 


	3. reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo guys its kj and im here to let you all know that holy fuck is this au getting hot the plot thickens in this chapter! it sure does... also the gay gets gayer which is always a good thing!!  
> \--  
> hey guys mooks here can u tell this used to be a matsuhanaiwaoihina fic yet??? bcuz i assure u You will  
> anyway enjoy the chapter its just gonna get more gay from here on folks!

Hinata wakes on Monday morning to the sound of screaming.

Though it may not happen everyday, this is not a rare occurrence. At the first shrill sound of strained voices echoing against metal, his mother shoots up from her bed, rounding the screen to pull Natsu tight in her arms.

“Stay quiet,” she murmurs, rubbing Natsu’s back. As stubborn and spitfire as she is, her empathy oftentimes brings her to hysterics when things turn south. It’s why they have a plan for these things, why he and his mother methodically cover the kitchen window with boards as the yelling continues. If Hinata didn’t attend Aoba Jousai, he’d stay put waiting for the screaming to stop, missing school in favour of making sure his family is safe. But things have changed, and though more voices begin to shout, Hinata gathers his things and readies his bag, kissing his mother on the cheek as he goes. She’s still holding Natsu against her chest, lips pressed together in a thin line, no words spoken but words heard clearly: _be safe, take care, I love you_. Hinata smiles one last time before stepping outside, metal on metal grinding as he closes the door behind him.

The area in front of his house is void of people, but through the windows and around the corners, Hinata can see their presence. They watch, look, wait, too smart from surviving this long, no longer fearless enough to go closer and investigate. Hinata understands, keeps his head low, and holds his bag close to himself. If he has any luck, he won’t encounter the commotion that so terribly rings between each metal container in the gridwork streets. For now, he keeps his pace steady, and stays alert.

But his luck runs out the moment he realizes his path to the elevator brings him closer to the source if the noise, of the banging, of the screams. He breathes deeply once, closing his eyes to gain his courage, only to flinch as the tell tale noise of gunfire rattles the very floor beneath Hinata’s feet. He drops low to the ground on instinct and moves slowly forwards, holding his breath as footsteps echo alongside the clattering of bullets. He turns his head to peer around the corner. There stands several militant guards, guns held at the ready, holding back a throng of people. Hinata moves forwards, still on his hands and knees, careful not to make any excess noise as heavy footsteps and shouts drown out his identity. One militant in their dark black uniform drags someone away, hand clasped over the prisoners mouth as they attempt to struggle out of his hold. Blood is visible from this distance as it rolls down their forehead, dripping from their brow bone into their bloodshot eyes.

“You there!” a guard shouts, jogging towards Hinata. Hinata is quick to stand, hands in the air as the man points his gun towards him. “Identification, _now.”_

“Y-yessir,” Hinata stammers, lowering one hand to pull his card from his blazer. He extends it to the guard, gauging his reaction as a mix between surprise and suspicion. Slowly, he lowers his gun, trading it for the scanner at his hip. When a blue light flashes, he nods, handing Hinata his card back.

“Follow me. You don’t speak, you don’t step out of line, and you get in the elevator. Clear?” the guard orders, towering over Hinata. His hand lowers to rest on the holister of his gun, the threat clear enough that Hinata shuts up and nods.

Together, they walk to the elevator, passing the hoard of people in the process of being restrained. Their screams and sobs are drowned out by the commands of the now growing military presence, their shouts carrying with a kind of intensity that makes cries of desperation seem akin to a whimper. Hinata does his best to keep his eyes trained forwards, to ignore the faces flecked with decade old scars and fresh blood. He does his best not to speculate what had happened before he arrived.

The guard delivers one swift push to Hinata’s back, pushing him into the elevator with a slight stumble. The door slams shut before he can even turn around, the elevator already rising when Hinata realizes his hands are shaking.

It doesn’t matter how often these confrontations happen, because overhearing will never compare to walking through the aftermath. Hinata breathes deeply as wind tears through his uniform, tousling his hair and chilling him further. The heavy workings of machinery is loud enough that the screams from below only exist as echoes in Hinata’s mind. It wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last, and yet Hinata’s body remains wound tight, even as the distance between him and the lower level grows larger and larger. His ears begin to pop, and his hands slowly slow in their tremors. The scent of the sea fades as well, as if to remind him he’s about to exit this life once more.

 _Focus,_ Hinata thinks as the elevator screeches to a halt. _Get to school on time, go to class, go to lunch, be normal._ There’s an agent already waiting to scan his ID, wordlessly moving him along through the motions of making sure everything is in order. Hinata simply rushes through his routine, catching the high speed train to Aoba Jousai station and pushing his way through the crowds to his locker. Eyes still linger even now, the whispers no longer as loud as they once had been.

No matter how hard he tried, Hinata will always be from the lower levels. He will always be affected by what it takes just to survive there, will always carry the weight of responsibility on his back as long as he’s allowed on the surface. For now, he’s resigned to walking to class as if nothing had happened, because nothing did. And in the end, in spite of everything that happened, it was just another morning on level thirty-three.

—

Hinata has just begun to set up his things in homeroom when his teacher clears his throat, tapping the glass, a list of reminders and school announcements appearing on screen. At the top reads _Physical Exams_ , catching Hinata’s attention as it expands to show a few various points.

“Our yearly physical exams will be taking place tomorrow,” the teacher says, leaning onto his desk. “As you know, all information is purely standard and will be sent to your families so that they will be informed of any anomalies in your health, warning signs, etcetera.”

Hinata leans over to tap Kindaichi on the shoulder. “Is this a normal thing?” he whispers, keeping his voice hushed.

Kindaichi nods, looking back over his shoulder. “Yeah, you get half the day off for getting a check up. It’s pretty cool.”

“This year the board has implemented a new policy and regime,” the teacher continues. The screen flashes, showing a small diagram of a blood cell and molar. “For better health records and the betterment of _your_ health, trained nurses and health professionals will be taking blood samples and performing a routine dental checkup.” A few people nervously begin to whisper, leaning over and murmuring about the prospect of needles. “There is nothing to be worried about, and if you have any concerns, you may bring it up with me during office hours. In the meantime, we will continue our studies.”

Hinata begins flipping through his textbook, not thinking much of the looming physical exams. His mother will be delighted to hear he’ll be getting a checkup, and that’s enough for him to go along with the strange disruption of routine. The last time Hinata saw a doctor was before his sister was born, on level thirty-two when he caught a high fever. He doesn’t remember much, but his mother tells him that the doctor was so busy that the fever passed by the time they got to see him. The closest thing to a doctor after that would be the midwife who delivered Natsu, and even then, her face is blurry.

By now, Hinata’s lunch routine has sunk in enough that he doesn’t hesitate at the stairs to the roof. There wasn’t any food in the house to take to lunch, leaving him a bit peckish, but otherwise comfortable as he moves to meet up with the rest of his friends. Hanamaki and Matsukawa are the only two there, tossing popcorn into each other’s mouths as they squint against the bright sunshine. Matsukawa waves Hinata over with one hand as a piece of popcorn hits his eye, falling into his lap.

“Dude, where’s your lunch?” Hanamaki asks as Hinata sits down. Hinata shrugs and rubs the back of his neck, yelping as Hanamaki thrusts his lunch bag onto his lap. “Nevermind, you can have the rest of mine. Mama Matsukawa made candy popcorn, and I’m kinda filled up on that.”

Hinata eyes the chocolate and toffee coloured popcorn resting in a bright yellow tupperware, reaching out to take a piece. It melts in his mouth instantly, giving him a clear idea why Hanamaki would abandon the rest of his food. He’s just about to ask if Matsukawa’s mother can make any more popcorn for tomorrow when the door to the stairwell bursts open. In comes Oikawa, face soured and lip caught between his teeth. On his heels is Iwaizumi, tugging at his tie and murmuring under his breath as Oikawa begins to pace at the roof’s edge.

“Oikawa?” Hanamaki asks, face falling. Oikawa doesn’t spare him a glance, his one hand combing wildly through his hair as he stalks back and forth, back and forth, a pendulum in a grandfather clock, moving fast and nowhere at the same time.

“Fucking— I _cannot_ —“ The false starts are loaded with not venom, but _anxiety,_ his appearance bordering on frenzied as he throws his hands down at his side.

“What’s this about?” Matsukawa asks, turning the question to Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi rubs his face, flopping down beside Hinata. “It’s the physical exams.”

“What about them?” Hinata asks, tilting his head.

“I _can’t_ do them,” Oikawa says, still pacing. His hands ruffle through his pockets as he searches for something to chew, eventually pulling out a stick of gum in a bright pink wrapper. He shoves the wrapper back in his pocket, chewing as he jumps down from the ledge.

“You did them last year,” Hanamaki points out.

“Last year they didn’t take DNA and dental records,” he snaps before collecting himself and sitting down with a heavy sigh. “Sorry.”

“What, you on the run from the government or something?” Hanamaki jokes, nudging Matsukawa’s arm.

Oikawa’s shoulders go stiff, hunching over with his lips pressed into a thin line. There’s a moment of silence between the five of them, Hinata nervously eyeing between Hanamaki’s dropping expression and Oikawa’s anxiety-filled one. He remembers the first time he came up the elevator to the surface, seeing Oikawa climb up the levels on the way. Something falls into place, a puzzle piece that’s still far from finishing the whole picture.

“Wait,” Hanamaki says, his voice lowering as he glances around. “Seriously?”

Oikawa’s left eye twitches, and in one swift movement, he surges forwards and yanks Iwaizumi and Hanamaki in close so that all five of their heads press together. His eyes meet Hinata’s for one long second before he finally speaks. “If you help me get out of this situation, I’ll explain _exactly_ why I can’t do this.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes widen as he pulls back, brow furrowed. “Oikawa, you’re— _everything?”_

Oikawa scoffs. “Not _everything._ Just…” he trails off, mulling over the words as he chews. “Listen—” His eyes flit to Hinata’s for a split second before looking back towards the others. “I trust you. And I trust you to make sure this works out. Risk versus reward scenario— I’ll tell you enough that you understand.”

“We need to fake the records,” Matsukawa says, mind already working. “Remotely— the only people in the exam room are you and the nurse.”

“So what, we take a random person’s blood and pawn it as Oikawa’s?” Iwaizumi asks. “Because there’s no way in hell that’ll work.”

“I can find some,” Hinata pipes up. “If it’s from the lower levels, they’ll have no record of whoever’s blood it is already.”

“They’ll likely want payment or a bribe, which I can take care of,” Hanamaki offers. “Mother makes enough that she won’t miss anything.”

“There’s… no need,” Hinata slowly says. “Something happened this morning, and there's probably still blood leftover.”

Hanamaki pales. “Something happened?”

“Old blood won’t work— they’ll notice,” Oikawa butts in. “And how the hell do you forge dental records?”

“I don’t know, steal them from a dentist?” Matsukawa offers.

Oikawa raises a brow. “And how do you suggest we do that?”

Matsukawa grins. “Well,” he begins, splaying his hands out on his thighs. “I’ve been messing around with computers for a while now. _Hypothetically,_ I could get my way into some random dentist’s records and get a scan. I can get through most firewalls, and I doubt a dentist would be expecting this.”

Iwaizumi turns to Oikawa, whose eyes are trained onto his hands. “Would that work?”

Oikawa nods, pursing his lips. “It should. And the blood idea— taking some from the lower levels— will work too.” He looks up to Hinata, eyes cold. Hinata startles as their eyes meet, nervously fiddling with the hem of his uniform. “I’ll handle it. Don’t get into any more trouble. It’s suspicious.”

Hinata frowns, lips pulling tight as dissatisfaction builds up in his chest. He supposes it makes sense— he’s here on a _scholarship,_ and already had attention on him from this morning. Oikawa already told him that he doesn’t trust him, and Hinata figures that wouldn’t change over the course of a few weeks, as much as his confusing advances contradict his words.

Hanamaki runs a hand through his hair. _“Christ,_ Oikawa, what are you wrapped up in?”

Oikawa shrugs, face still stoic and aloof. “It’s usually a lot more fun.” He turns to Matsukawa, eyes narrowing. “How good are you at this? Can you get into whatever school medical records fine?”

Matsukawa nods, cocking his head ever so slightly. “I’m good at what I do. Thought you said you trusted us, fearless leader.”

At that, Oikawa cracks a smile. “Of course. Just don’t want anyone getting in over their heads.”

“So, Matsukawa gets the dental records, Oikawa gets the blood, we swap one for the other and make sure the records match,” Iwaizumi confirms, looking over everyone. His eyes land on Hinata, face fallen, unsure, confused, almost dejected. “First years usually go first, so you can tell us how the process goes, alright?”

“Maybe you could look around and see what they do with the blood,” Hanamaki suggests.

Oikawa nods, looking back over to Hinata with a glint in his eye. “You’re curious— put it to good use,” he says.

Hinata can never be sure what Oikawa really means when he speaks, all understanding lost in cryptic phrasing and tones that mismatch with his words. It might be all in Hinata’s head, but his words come of as half threatening and half praise, stirring something deep within Hinata that only furthers his confusion. He _knows_ he’s attracted to Oikawa— his drunken realization made sure of that— but only now is he coming to understand that this frenzied, wild animal of a boy still manages to hold power over his head.

Hanamaki exhales, leaning so that his elbows rest on his knees. “I’ll wire you money tonight. How much do you think you’ll need?”

Oikawa shrugs. “Around 60,000 should do. Keeps the hands clean.”

Hinata tries not to choke at the amount of money as he wrinkles his nose. The sentiment follows the feeling that Oikawa is in deeper than anyone understands. Maybe, he supposes, Iwaizumi knows, but his face is still lined with concern, jaw set and eyes sharp.

When it’s time to leave to go back to class, he does so with a sinking feeling in his stomach and a glance back at Oikawa. He’s already staring his way, and their eyes meet in a juxtaposition of surprise and expectancy, as if Oikawa had orchestrated this whole moment. He bounces his leg and simply stares, face void of smile, and forces Hinata to look away.

—

Hinata sits on a chair in the middle of the infirmary. It’s large, divided by several different curtains to give the others privacy as the nurses work. The line of the rest of the first years linger outside the door, waiting their turn. Hinata’s never been to the infirmary here before, so used to the dirty floor and torn up curtains of the one in his old school. The first thing he notices is how _pristine_ and _clean_ it is, the curtains surrounding the infirmary beds immaculate, the walls whiter than his own teeth. He bounces his leg as the nurse runs through a glass clipboard, typing something before setting it down on her desk. So far, all she’s done is take his weight, height, measurements, and ask him a series of questions that were only slightly intrusive. It’s now that she turns on the machine resting on the table.

“What’s that?” Hinata asks as it buzzes to life, hovering into the air.

“It’s to take a three dimensional scan of your teeth. An x-ray of sorts. It’s not actual x-rays, so you won’t need a lead apron,” she explains, taking a step back. The machine tilts horizontally, moving mere inches from his nose. “Just hold still.”

The machine flashes brightly as it begins to spin around his head. From beside it Hinata can see the nurse examining her tablet, nodding slowly. Eventually, the machine stops, floats towards the table, and powers down, lights dimming. Hinata releases a breath he didn't realize he has held and blinks the lights from his eyes as the nurse steps forwards with a cotton swab and disinfectant. She rolls up his sleeve for him and takes out a syringe with a tube attached to it. Hinata’s stomach drops as he gulps, nerves working up his system as she swipes over the crook of his elbow with the disinfectant.

“You’ll only feel a slight sting,” she warns. Hinata twists his mouth up but nods. Normally, he’d look away, fear prevalent in the back of his mind as she preps the needle. But he promised Oikawa he’d watch every little thing, so he does, even as the nurse inserts the needle into his arm. The pain is warm, stronger than a slight sting, but nothing to wince over. He watches as the blood goes down the tube into a little vial, filling it up only half way before she removes the needle and immediately places a small cloth onto the wound where blood starts to leak out and puts a bandaid over it. Hinata’s stomach twists, but he’s glad that it’s over.

The nurse takes the vial over to the machine and inserts it into a slot in the front. She connects it to the tablet next to the machine and picks it up, watching as the screen lights up. Several lights on top of the machine flash as it scans the vial of blood. With the nurse’s back to Hinata, he can see the word that pops up on her tablet as it’s finished scanning:

_[NEGATIVE]_

_Negative for what?_ Hinata wonders, brows furrowed in a mixture of concern and curiosity as the nurse unhooks the machine and turns back around to him.

“Alright, you’re all good to go,” she says. “Remember to eat and drink once you get back to class, alright?”

Hinata nods, slipping out of the chair to push open the curtain. He walks out of the room as another of his peers walks in, walking straight for his classroom. He has time to kill before lunch, where he’ll describe the procedure to the rest of his group. Despite it all, he can't help but feel a tingle of adrenaline rush through him.

—

At lunch, Hinata arrives first, having rushed all the way to the roof. Adrenaline pumps through him as his mind wracks with possibilities and explanations of _“NEGATIVE.”_ Hanamaki and Matsukawa arrive after him, per usual, and Iwaizumi and Oikawa soon follow after. Hinata tries to not let his eyes linger on Oikawa, but it’s hard when there’s mysterious constantly spinning around in his mind.

“So,” Hanamaki starts. “How was it?”

“Well, it kinda hurt,” Hinata says with a small laugh. “But she used this machine-thing that she said took a 3D image of my teeth and a vial of blood. I’m guessing that she used them together to do _something,_ because the tablet she was holding said _negative_ when it was done scanning the vial.”

“Negative?” Hinata hears Oikawa mutter under his breath.

Matsukawa hums. “A tablet, huh. That shouldn’t be too hard to get into,” he says. He looks at Hanamaki. “Babe, you go in before me, right?”

“I can,” Hanamaki says. “Got a plan in mind?”

Matsukawa grins, pulling out a small device. “I do. Got this yesterday,” he brags, showing off the device. It’s circular in shape— flat, almost perfectly so with one surface tinted black and the other side of it white.

Hinata leans in, trying to inspect it. “What’s it do?” he asks.

“It’s like a signal, basically,” Matsukawa explains. “The tablet is likely hooked up into The Cloud, but so is practically everything else. In order to find the exact thing we need to get into, I’ll need a precise location, and not _Tablet ID 1132B5,_ or whatever _._ Not that we’d be able to get the ID for it in that allotted time.” Matsukawa slips the device into a miniature plastic bag, handing it to Hanamaki. _“Your_ job is to stick this onto the tablet.”

Hanamaki whistles. “I should be able to, no problem,” he says, pocketing the small bag.

“Third years go last, around the end of the school day,” Iwaizumi states. “Matsukawa, have you found a place to hide out yet?”

Matsukawa shrugs. “Yeah, behind the stairwell in the back of the school, no one goes around there.” He shoots Hanamaki a wink, who grins and nudges him. Iwaizumi sighs, shaking his head and staring at the ground.

“Of course you two would know that,” he grumbles.

Hinata smiles at the antics, a sense of fulfillment and excitement filling him as their plan comes together. “I can probably get out of class and join you guys,” he says. “I’ll make something up.”

 _“You_ don’t need to,” Oikawa says, fixing Hinata with a glare.

“Oikawa—” Iwaizumi starts.

Oikawa ignores him. “You’ve done your part. You don’t need to risk getting into trouble.”

Hinata frowns, indignance lighting a flare in his chest as he clenches his fists. “Wasn’t I supposed to be _curious?”_ he bites back. “I’ve already helped you. I’m already involved. I don’t see why you’re so against me following through!”

Oikawa narrows his eyes as he tilts his chin up, mouth twisting into a scowl. “And I’m saying you’ve done enough,” he retorts. “You don’t need to do anything else.”

“But I want to!” Hinata exclaims. “I want to help! I want to help _you!”_

Oikawa’s eyes widen into an expression Hinata’s never seen on him before— _surprise._ He shakes out of it and huffs, crossing his arms.

“Now, now,” Hanamaki says, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. “No need to fight, guys. We’re all friends here.”

“Oikawa, none of this would be possible if Hinata hadn’t given us a rundown of the procedure,” Iwaizumi says, voice strong and sure with no room for argument. “He’s right. He’s already involved, it’s only fair to let him in on this too.”

Oikawa glares towards Hinata, eyes narrowed. Hinata can feel his pulse beating in his neck as Oikawa steps forwards, shrugging off Hanamaki’s hand. “You… do what you want.”

“That wasn’t hard, now was it?” Iwaizumi huffs, shaking his head. “He isn’t risking his life, Oikawa.”

Oikawa stiffens, looking down at the ground. “I’m being unreasonable, aren’t I?” he mumbles to him.

“Just paranoid,” Iwaizumi tells him, leaning towards him and lowering his voice. “I don’t blame you for it, but control yourself, idiot.”

Oikawa nods, tipping his head back up towards the sky. “Lets just get through this fucking day first.”

Matsukawa lifts up a bottle of water. “I’ll drink to that.”

—

Faking sick is surprisingly easy, given that his entire class has joined in as well. Groups of friends bemoan and curl up in the halls and in classrooms, turning Aoba Jousai Academy’s halls into a strange kind of chaotic. Kunimi seems _actually_ sick, pale beyond his normal complexion with his head down on Kindaichi’s desk. By the time he approaches his teacher’s desk, stammering and flushed, he’s given an excuse slip written on the back of a sticky note and a wave that almost says _good riddance._ It’s a break for the teacher, too.

Hinata walks through the busy halls, heeding Matsukawa’s directions towards the stairwell. He was right— it’s a secluded location with a heavy steel door, a perfect place for necking or hacking into school medical files. When he arrives, Iwaizumi and Hanamaki are waiting, bandaids on their forearms. Iwaizumi’s tie hangs loose around his neck and Hanamaki snacks on a plump mandarin, filling the stairwell with the tangy scent of fresh oranges as Hinata sits beside them.

“Where’s Matsukawa?” he asks.

“He should be here any minute. He has to get his blood drawn too,” Hanamaki answers.

No sooner does Matsukawa burst through the door, laptop wedged under his arm and circle frame glasses on his nose. He immediately sits down on the stairs amongst the rest of them, opening up the laptop and typing in a password. It opens to a screen displaying a small network page, a video feed of the infirmary and another of strange numbers, and as strange and foreign as it seems to Hinata, Matsukawa clicks through it with ease.

“I set up a remote network so we can’t be traced,” Matsukawa explains, eyes flicking across the screen. “‘Hiro’s already activated the device I gave him. Now we just have to wait for Oikawa’s turn.”

Hinata cocks his head to the side, looking up at the reflection of the screen. “You need glasses?”

“Farsighted,” Matsukawa, Hanamaki, and Iwaizumi say in unison, as if they’ve gotten the same question a thousand times before.

Hanamaki grins, throwing his arm over his boyfriend’s shoulders. “He looks cute with them, don’t you think?”

Before Hinata can answer, Matsukawa speaks up. “Okay, Oikawa’s up,” he says, typing something into his laptop. It takes another minute before he sighs, leaning back. “I’m in. Now we wait for his dental scans to be uploaded and switch them.”

Hinata leans over Matsukawa’s shoulder, staring at the exact replica of the nurse’s tablet screen. His eyes flicker over the information as it updates. _Name: Oikawa Tooru. Age: 18. Height: 184.3 cm. Weight: 72.2 kg. Up to date on all vaccines._ “Do you know what that negative thing means yet?”

Matsukawa hums in disent, shaking his head. “Every single one says negative so far.”

“They’re looking for a specific person,” Iwaizumi mumbles. The other three look to him in realization, eyes wide. Iwaizumi shrugs. “It makes sense. Dental records, blood type or DNA or whatever— that stuff matches a person.”

“So what, Oikawa thinks they’re looking for him?” Hanamaki asks, voice light but face serious.

“Well, we’ll find that out soon enough,” Iwaizumi says.

Suddenly, Matsukawa’s computer beeps. In the blink of an eye, Matsukawa begins uploading the stolen dental records, torrenting Oikawa’s as he does so. They hold their breath as the process continues, bodies tense until a message appears reading _success_. Matsukawa rolls his shoulders and leans back, cracking his knuckles.

“It’s in his own hands now,” he says.

“He switches around his blood with whatever blood he stole, we get the greenlight— or red light, I guess, if its negative,” Hanamaki says. “And bam: it’s done.”

The nurse’s page updates once more, reading _analyzing samples._ Hinata bites his lip, heart beating against his chest, and nearly jumps when it updates.

_Negative. No match found._

Matsukawa quickly closes out of his software as Iwaizumi leans his head back against the wall, letting out a heavy sigh. “That asshole owes us,” he says, earning a laugh from Hinata.

“Now we have something we can hold over his head,” Hanamaki jokes, rolling a shoulder. “Like, _haha, remember when we saved your ass from the government_ or whatever this ends up being?”

“Well… he’ll explain it, right?” Hinata says, looking towards the others. Hanamaki and Matsukawa look over to Iwaizumi in turn, who nods.

“He won’t go back on his word,” Iwaizumi promises them. With that, he stands, dusting off his thighs “I’m going to get a coffee— you want anything?”

Matsukawa and Hanamaki shake their heads. Hinata hesitates, before standing as well. “I should get ready to go— it’s almost the end of the day.”

They share their farewells, a strange sentiment after having _hacked_ into the school records as if it were some kind if bonding experience and not a punishable offence. The gravity of the situation only begins to sink in as Hinata walks past the infirmary on his way to his locker, watching all of the third years lean up against the wall and chat. It’s funny, that tasting the surface also means tasting a strange kind of criminality.

He takes two steps before hands wrap around his shoulders and yank him sideways, one moving to cover his mouth before he can yelp. Everything goes dark and a door slams, Hinata struggling against his captor’s hold as a single bright white light flicks on. It’s only then that he’s allowed to wriggle free and turn to see the face of who grabbed him— none other than Oikawa Tooru himself. His eyes are wide and hair a perfect mess, but what strikes Hinata is the closeness of their bodies even after he’s pulled away. In this tiny cupboard, they’re only inches apart, so close that he can smell artificial cherries on Oikawa’s lips.

“I just took a vial of my own blood from the infirmary and have to carry it around until I’m out of sight,” he says, voice not a whisper but _low_ and rumbling. “Did it all work? I’m assuming so, but I want to hear it, assuming you watched Matsukawa over his shoulder.”

Hinata inhales, aware that his ears have already begun to burn. “Y-yeah,” he affirms. “It did. You’re negative, just like everyone else.”

Oikawa’s eyes close, a breath filtering out of his lips. It blows a strand of brown hair from his forehead, taking with it tension that fizzles out from his shoulders. He leans forwards, enough so that Hinata stumbles back in effort not to end up pressed against his body once more. Oikawa cracks open an eye and smirks, as if he wasn’t just running for his life a moment ago. “Too close?”

Hinata shakes his head. “No,” he answers, quick and sure.

Oikawa, of course, sees through it. He pushes forwards and rests their bodies together, forehead leaning against the wall beside Hinata's head, lips close enough to Hinata’s ear that he can feel the puffs of breath leaving them. “Would you like an apology for my attitude or praise for your good work?” he murmurs.  

Hinata’s breath shakes his lungs as he inhales, hitched and sharp. “B-both?” he stammers out.

Oikawa chuckles. “Well then. Sorry, and thank you,” he says, leaning back to stare down at Hinata. He watches as the teasing lilt in his eye turns cold, heartbeat quickening as Oikawa licks his lips.

“One last warning to back out,” he tells him.

“I'm not gonna,” Hinata huffs, meeting his gaze. “Haven’t I shown that? Or do you need something more?”

Oikawa’s demeanor breaks at that. He brings a hand up, tucking a strand of Hinata’s hair behind his ear. His fingers brush against his cheekbone, and Hinata’s heart feels like it’s moments away from jumping out of his chest. “Oh, Shou-chan,” Oikawa hums. “I’ll never say no to more. Not from you, at least.”

Hinata furrows his brow, mind racing to understand the implications, the change in his demeanor towards him nearly giving him whiplash. “So you trust me?”

Oikawa smirks. “You could call it that, if you want.” He steps away, pulling out the vial of blood from his pocket. It’s still warm when he slips it into Hinata's hands. “Do me a favour. Drop that somewhere. Rinse it down your sink. I don’t care.”

Hinata cocks his head to the side, eyes flickering down to where Oikawa's hands envelop his own. They’re large and warm, with fingers spindly and covered in scars. “You can’t have it?”

“Not can’t. I just… don’t want to spend any more time with vials of blood. Not for another few weeks,” he says.

“That’s oddly specific,” Hinata mumbles.

“It’s a joke,” Oikawa tells him, smirk widening into a grin. He leans forwards and taps Hinata’s nose, hand leaving his as he goes to open the door. Hinata’s chest seizes in confusion as Oikawa looks back over his shoulder, eyes lidded and lips curved. “I’ll explain tomorrow, but not here. The walls have ears, y’know.”

The door is left ajar as he leaves, Hinata’s breath stolen with him. The vial of blood is tucked into his pants, and he can’t help but think of it as the strangest courting gift if it were anything else.

 _How romantic,_ he thinks that night as he washes Oikawa’s bloody vial alongside the rest of his family’s dishes. At the very least, he trusts him.

—

Oikawa is no stranger to dreams. When he closes his eyes, he remembers, fleeting images he can’t quite place, faces familiar yet completely unknown. Dreams are blurry and out of reach, a warped version of his own life that he hardly pays any mind to. When he falls asleep that night, he expects them as one would expect rain to fall from a cloud heavy and grey.

This is not a dream.

He stands in a hallway with no windows and seven doors— six on on the walls, one at the end. It is as white as he has ever seen and lit by flickering overhead lights. Oikawa’s eyes drift to the floor, where the glass from broken bulbs lie. He looks to his feet, impaled with that same glass, and steps forwards, leaving a footprint inked in blood behind. He can feel the thin hospital gown chafing under his arms and he _runs_ at the speed of the flickering lights, past all six doors and through the seventh, paying no mind to the glass stabbing through the soles of his feet.

A thought passes through his mind. _I am made for this._ Oikawa is lucid and cannot understand what that means.

And suddenly he’s not there anymore, standing at another door, this time metal and heavy. There are windows here, the outside dark and murky. His surroundings are lit by the red emergency lights and his ears are filled with the sound of his own blood and sirens as he slowly lifts a gun to the face of a cowering man and lifts the safety. He is young and he still wears his gown and nothing else. Eyes blank, he fires, and the man crumples to the ground. By the time the sound echoes throughout the chamber, he’s gone, and in his mind, Oikawa can count the seconds— _one, two_ — it takes for him to kill a man. It’s so familiar— not just the memory, but the motions, the weight of his finger on the trigger and the pushback as the bullet flies through the air. He has done this before, afterall.

When Oikawa wakes, it’s to the sound of waves crashing. His momentum carries him forwards until his curling over his knees, sheet falling away to expose his own palms. He blinks, and they are red, coated in blood not his own. He blinks, and it's gone.

—

Oikawa takes them to Iwaizumi’s house after school. There’s an hour where the house is empty, before his siblings get home from their own middle and elementary school classes, where they all sit around the kitchen table. It's a modest house, skinny and two floors tall, attached to others identical to it at the sides. There are whispers of siblings everywhere— family photos, legos scattered on the ground, blankets and stuffed toys lining the couches. Though the walls are close, they aren’t thin, no hint of neighbours voices murmuring nearby. And as small and simple as it is, it’s a home made so with windows and potted plants and scratches on the linoleum floor.

Eventually, they fall silent, everyone’s eyes drifting to where Oikawa sits, cross legged in his chair. He’s spinning a coin on the table, watching it rotate and fall before slapping it down. He looks up, and sighs, eyes closing as he leans back.

“I’m an amnesiac,” he says, voice clear without a hint of shame. “I don’t remember anything before the age of twelve.” He pauses, frowning. “Or maybe I do. It’s hard to say.”

Hanamaki leans back in his chair, sighing in relief. “Here I was, worried you were some kind of yakuza,” he says, shaking his head.

“Well, I’m not finished,” Oikawa tells him with a wry smile.

“I thought Iwaizumi said you two were childhood friends?” Hinata asks, turning to Iwaizumi, who sits with his arms crossed.

Oikawa hums. “We are. Iwaizumi already knows about all this,” he says, waving his hand. “Iwaizumi found me, after all.”

As if to play stagemaster to the confusion in the air, Oikawa smiles and says nothing, taking in the faces of surprise around him. Beside him, Iwaizumi groans. “Stop being dramatic and explain.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes, taking another breath. “He found me because I escaped from someplace, somewhere, covered in blood, nearly naked and shaking. That’s my earliest memory— running away, climbing upwards.”

“Is that all you remember?” Matsukawa asks. He isn’t whispering, but his voice is quiet, as if speaking too loud would break Oikawa’s streak of sheer honesty.

“I didn’t even know my name. Maybe I didn’t even have one,” he shrugs. “I just kind of… chose Oikawa Tooru. It fits, doesn't it?”

His eyes land on Hinata’s, deep and brown and soft despite their power. “Yeah,” Hinata says, small and gentle. “It does.”

“So where the _hell_ did you escape from?” Hanamaki asks, intrigue showing on his face in the form of two pink brows raised.

Oikawa purses his lips, thinking. “It… didn’t look like a hospital. I was wearing a gown, though— and I have all kinds of scars I don’t remember getting,” he tells them. “I don’t know what they did, but they made me… different.”

“Different?” Hinata asks.

“Stronger. Faster. I _notice_ things. My mind never shuts off. I don’t care about pain. I picked up a gun at age fifteen and knew how to shoot it without a problem. I know how to fight and no one even taught me how.”

In the blink of an eye, Oikawa pulls a knife from his jacket and throws it, narrowly missing Matsukawa’s ear. It lodges into a cork board pinned onto the wall, an inch deep and dead centre. Hanamaki exhales heavy, one hand resting on his chest.

“Jesus, Oikawa, maybe give a warning?”

“Idiot, don’t put holes in the wall!”

Oikawa laughs, standing up to yank the knife from the wall. It’s curved and sharp and a deep inky black, fitting perfectly into a sheath Oikawa slips into his jacket. “You don’t think I’m lying, do you?”

“Of course not,” Matsukawa says. “You wouldn’t.”

Hanamaki sighs, shaking his head. “He’s right. It makes sense, too. So what, you used all this subconscious karate kid training to become a gangster?”

“Partially. Mostly, I’m trying to find who the fuck left _these_ on me,” he says, lifting up his shirt to expose his chest and a thick, long scar that trails all the way up to his collarbones. “And what they were planning to do with me in the first place.”

Hinata eyes both the scar, straight as an arrow and pink amongst his tanned skin, and his abs, strong and sculpted and leaving little to the imagination. Oikawa drops his shirt and looks over to Hinata, smirking at his pink cheeks. “Anyways, that’s why I didn't want my blood taken,” he tells them, sitting back down. “Because I’m sure no one has forgotten about the escape, and I’d rather not go back to the place where I got my scars.”

They all fall silent, mulling over Oikawa’s admission as he drums his fingers on the table. It’s Hanamaki who speaks first, leaning back to tuck his hands behind his neck.

“So, do you want help with that?” he asks. “Because I'm pretty sure we’ve all made it clear that we’re in— Hinata especially.”

Hinata blushes at the memory of snapping back at Oikawa, twisting the hem of his uniform in his fists. Oikawa stares back at them in surprise for a second before collecting himself, shaking his head.

“We’re all already involved,” Matsukawa points out. “And we can’t ignore what you’ve told us now.”

“I’ve already told you this, but we’re going to help whether you like it or not,” Iwaizumi says. “You’ve spent too long trying to do this on your own.”

Oikawa’s lips purse, his eyes averting to look at his hands. When he looks back up, he’s grinning, eyes lidded and tongue caught between his teeth.

“Alright then,” he says. “But on one condition.”

“Which is?” Matsukawa prompts.

“Don’t die.”

There’s a beat of silence between the five of them before Hanamaki laughs. “Well, that shouldn’t be too hard.”

—

What happens in the two months that follows is something Hinata could never have expected. Camaraderie forms between the group, enough so that he no longer exists as Hinata, the new addition, but as Hinata, the one who can pick a lock and looks innocent enough to get the rest of them away without trouble and who just so happens to live thirty-three levels away from the surface. Tight knit, thick as thieves, Matsukawa and Hanamaki, Oikawa and Iwaizumi, and himself forge an alliance more than just regular friendship— unless, of course, you count government conspiracy a part of friendship.

But what keeps Hinata up at night, what shakes him to his core, is none other than Oikawa. It isn’t in the way he could have guessed, because the threats stop the same day Hinata finds out about his past, or lack thereof. Instead, he comes face to face with Oikawa’s charm in the most sublime, mundane ways. Their hands brush during study groups, because he _decides_ to tutor Hinata, his eyes linger on the slip of his collarbone exposed when he loosens his tie, his feet knocking against his underneath tables. Oikawa doesn’t acknowledge it— if their eyes meet after a hand brushes his leg, he simply stares, smiling with his head tipped sideways as if to ask _what about it?_

It’s when Oikawa speaks that he truly does his worst. He could be reciting the train schedule and Hinata would still be captivated by the timbre of his voice, alternating between low and rich and light and playful. It’s as if his tone bobs on the surface of the waves, reflecting a kind of brightness before falling deeper into the shadows, only to surface again. He doesn’t doubt that Oikawa notices what it does to him— he seems to notice _everything_ about him. Oikawa’s attention burns his skin from the inside out, enough so that Hinata begins to sense the gaze on him when he’s turned away. Still, he knows that he’ll never catch all of the times Oikawa watches, and that very fact sets him on fire in the very best ways.

But in the two months that pass, Oikawa remains a lock without a key. Hinata never sees him in the lower levels again, but he _knows_ he’s there if only because the shadows move with a little too much purpose on his way down. It should be stranger, but Hinata can only be intrigued, _excited,_ finds himself standing up a tad bit straighter and looking a bit closer towards the odd flash of red, because the prospect of seeing Oikawa’s knowing grin and feeling the spark inside his stomach is enough to risk putting his hands where they don’t belong— consequences be damned.

—

The lower levels are relatively quiet when Hinata heads to school one Friday morning. His mother had slept in, so there was a bit of a rush to get ready and leave, but the elevator area is home to no more commotion than usual. A few guards mill about, pushing around the people who linger for too long, but no cries stand out among the general groans of annoyance at the rain. It’s been dripping and running through the beams in unpredictable ways, falling in heavy streams through cracks, holes, and gutters that have long needed repair. The rust that forms on the newer sheets of metal stains his fingers a bright coppery colour, nearing the shade of his hair. He wipes it off onto his notebook and sighs once he reaches the safety of the elevator.

On the surface, the rain falls in buckets. Iwaizumi had lended him an umbrella the last time it rained, so he’s saved from the worst. It’s clear and plastic and helps the rain create a steady drone as it batters up against the material, splashing up onto his ankles and soaking through his shoes. Even with it, he’s nearing drenched by the time he arrives at his locker, but so are most of his classmates. One of the girls beside him shares a hairdryer with her friend, the warm air tickling Hinata’s ears as he passes.

The morning passes without any issue. Hinata and the third years eat lunch in the stairwell leading to the roof instead of on the roof itself, Oikawa’s hair still damp and plastered to his forehead in a way that shouldn’t make Hinata feel as hot as as it does. Without preamble, the bell rings, and class starts once more, Hinata hefting his textbook onto his desk and letting his mind wander as his geography teacher begins to lecture.

“Now!” he says, pushing up his glasses as he beams towards them. “I’m sure you’ve all noticed the weather— luckily, it pairs up with the current chapter on wind patterns and the physics behind them.”

Hinata looks out of the window, watching the raindrops splatter. It’s a sight that caught him off guard when he first saw it. After a lifetime of rain being filtered through metal gutters and leaking, being exposed to water falling from the sky to his face, untouched by anything but the air is novel and wonderous, nevermind when it’s acid laced and eats away at anything it touched. Today isn’t one of those days.

“So, let’s dive right in,” his teacher continues. “What we are experiencing right now is the _very beginnings_ of what kind of storm?”

Kindaichi raises his hand. “Isn’t it a typhoon?”

Hinata whips his head away from the window, leaning over Kindaichi's shoulder. “There’s a typhoon?” he exclaims, voice jumping up and octave. Everyone’s eyes turn towards him as he clasps a hand over his mouth, frozen in embarrassment as he slinks back into his seat.

His teacher smiles. “Yes, there is. I’m surprised you haven't’ heard of it— it’s been on the news quite a bit.”

“Isn’t is supposed to be really big?” a girl asks.

Their teacher nods, turning to tap on the screen. A radar image of Japan appears, zooming out to fully capture the size of the massive storm swirling off of the coast. Hinata’s eyes widen as his classmates murmur, pointing and humming to each other. “The category system is quite complex, but they’re rating it rather high as of this morning. However, all _we_ need to worry about is the wind. The water should drain into the lower levels just fine.”

Hinata thinks back to the overflowing gutters, the water pouring through the ceiling, the heavy waves crashing. Someone behind him snickers, reaching forwards to tap his shoulder. He turns, lip caught between teeth in worry.

“Have fun getting drowned,” he mocks, pushing Hinata forwards once more.

Anger and humiliation pools in Hinata’s gut, but before he has a chance to retaliate, the classroom phone rings. His teacher lifts it up, answering it quickly before looking towards Hinata. “Ah, for you Hinata. It’s your mother.”

Ignoring the taunting that the announcement causes, Hinata quickly dashes forwards, taking the phone from his teacher’s hands and exiting the classroom into the hallway so he can have some privacy. It’s a tiny thing with automated room numbers, but Hinata pays no mind to it, lifting it to his ear. “Mom?”

_“Shouyou,” his mother says, sounding breathless. “You need to stay up there. There's a typhoon warning.”_

“I just found out in class, everyone here seems to have known about it for days,” Hinata tells her, tapping his free hand against his thigh. “Are you okay? Where are you and Natsu supposed to go?”

 _“The factory is filled with electronics and reinforced against high tide flooding. Natsu and I are going to stay here but I can only bring one other person,”_ she admits. Hinata’s eyes dart around the hallway as he imagines her look of guilt. _“Besides, it’s probably safer where you are. Won’t the school let you stay? Or one of your friends?”_

Hinata slumps against the wall. “You don’t need to worry about me,” he promises. “As long as you and Natsu are gonna be safe.”

 _“We will be,”_ she promises. _“I love you, honey. I’ll see you when everything’s calmed down, okay?”_

“Okay,” Hinata mumbles, worry increasingly building up and spreading through him thick. “Love you too. Stay safe.”

The line clicks as an automated tone fills his ear. It’s sharp like the anxiety that fills his chest as he walks back in the room and hangs up the phone, silently taking his seat as the lecture about wind direction and pressure continues. His notes become a second thought, his family taking up his entire mind as the clock slowly moves forwards. Outside, wind whips through trees, making rain like bullets that collide with the windows as if their single purpose is to drown out any concentration Hinata could muster.

This isn’t the first storm he’s lived through, but they never get easier. What curls in his gut is an emotion tinted with poisonous feelings— relief that he is where he is, selfish yearning to be where his mother and sister are. His pen has long since slipped from his hold, but he makes no move to pick it up.

It’s nearing the end of the day when a harsh knocking interrupts the chatter of the classroom. The door opens and Hanamaki steps in, eyes sweeping over the heads to find Hinata, eyes trained at the window.

“Could I steal Hinata for a minute?” he asks the teacher as he leans up against the door. Hinata finally looks up towards him, eyes pleading without him even realizing it. He grips his pants legs tight enough that knuckles become white as his teacher sighs and looks towards the bell before shooing them both out of the door, books and all.

Hanamaki's face drops as the door closes. “Have you heard about the typhoon?” he asks, voice level and uncharacteristically quiet.

Hinata nods, swallowing thickly. “Yeah, uh, my sister and mom are safe, but...”

“But you aren’t,” Hanamaki finishes. Hinata nods. Hanamaki relaxes slightly, clicking his tongue. “Well, there’s no way you’re going down there during a storm. I checked the tide charts this morning— it’s gonna be rough.”

“My mom told me to stay up here,” Hinata tells him. He rubs the back of his neck and leans up against the wall.

“Well, I’m glad we’re on the same page. Mother is gone on business, so you can stay at my place,” Hanamaki says, smiling. Without his usual leer, it seems almost childlike, content.

“Really?” Hinata says, spirits picking up at the prospect of safety over the next few days.

“Duh. I’ve got tons of extra room. Matsukawa is gonna be there, Oikawa too.” Hanamaki’s smile morphs into a smirk. “It’s no problem at all, so don’t try and decline out of politeness.”

Hinata huffs, strained laughter escaping him. “I’m not _that_ stupid.” He pauses for a moment as he mulls over Hanamaki’s words. “What about Iwaizumi?”

“He’s watching over his siblings,” Hanamaki says as the bell goes off. “C’mon, let’s go get your stuff from your locker.”

Hinata’s worries subside as he leads Hanamaki to his locker. There’s a part of him, small, but loud, that hates himself for being comforted by the fact that he has a place to wait out the storm. He pushes it down, because he knows there has to be a way to simultaneously care about the safety of his family and his own wellbeing without being selfish. The knot in his gut doesn’t vanish as he packs his bag and listens to Hanamaki whistle a tune, but it shrinks, just enough that the weight on his shoulders can lift to let his breath filter through.

—

Matsukawa drives them all to Hanamaki’s house. Not drunk, Hinata can appreciate the simple luxury of the vehicle— black leather seats shiny and well kept, black paint unscratched and polished. There’s a digital screen displaying a traffic report of the city that everyone seems to ignore, Matsukawa weaving effortlessly through the freeways and bypasses that snake around buildings and dip down to avoid the train rails. Hinata, sitting in the backseat next to Oikawa, grips onto the handle rather tightly. It isn’t that Matsukawa is a _bad_ driver, because he isn’t; he’s attentive, eyes darting from one thing to the next all while keeping up conversation with Hanamaki riding shotgun. It’s that he drives fast enough for the speed alert to blink seven times on their way out of school. Oikawa looks over to him as he kicks his feet up against the seat in front of him, smirking at his reaction.

“So!” Hinata exclaims over the thumping bass of the techno music blasting from the stereo, hoping to break the tension only he feels. “How far are we from your place?”

Hanamaki rolls down his window as they whiz around a corner, elevated on an overpass as they take an exit. He sticks out his head for a moment, before ducking back in. “If you crane your head, you can see it,” he tells him, pointing one finger directly up.

Hinata crouches and tilts his head, following his line of sight. From this angle, they can see the enormous base of the three towers that rise above all other skyscrapers. At this distance, he realizes that while the tallest seems governmental and official, the two others have _homes_ perched at the top— lavish, large houses modelled in strange concoctions of glass and black fiber. Hinata then realizes that they’re growing closer to the buildings, and lets his jaw go slack.

“Mine is the one on the far right— there’s only four,” Hanamaki tells him, rather nonchalantly. Hinata sputters in reply, Hanamaki grinning at his reaction.

Matsukawa slows as they approach a gate, stopping when they reach a box glowing blue. Hanamaki unbuckles his seatbelt and leans across Matsukawa’s lap, opening his eyes wide as the machine quickly scans his face. It chimes, the gates swinging open, and Hanamaki sits back down, hands lingering on Matsukawa’s thighs in a motion Hinata isn’t sure he was supposed to see. It’s another few minutes before they reach glass doors bedazzled with shimmering gold trim. Once there, the screen on the dash lights up, reading _VALET?_ in bold lettering. Matsukawa taps it and opens the door, leaving the car running.

“Aren’t you gonna park it?” Hinata asks as he steps out, following the others leads.

“Hanamaki has it registered with the network, so it parks itself,” Matsukawa explains, using his shoulder to close the door. Oikawa steps out, slinging a duffel bag over his shoulder.

It’s one impressively quick elevator ride up before they reach the interior doors to Hanamaki’s home. It’s, as he explained, the easiest way to enter. Hinata didn’t know how to react when Hanamaki added with no lack of bitterness that his mother prefers helicopter. With one final facial scan, they finally step indoors, Hanamaki instantly kicking off his shoes once they do. It’s a sight to behold— grand marble columns contradicted by black lacquered wood panels decorating walls in geometric shapes. The windows, four in total, shine wall to floor and illuminate the foyer without the need of the massive crystal chandelier that dangles from the towering ceiling. In front of him directly is a large staircase, its railings protruding from the walls and detailed with fine jade embellishment. To either his left or right, the house continues on.

Hanamaki crouches down to where he kicked his shoes, fixing them so that they tuck neatly against the wall. He straightens, and looks over to Hinata with a rather soft smile at his wonder. “House tour?” he offers. Hinata nods feverishly.

“I’ll put my stuff in the usual place,” Oikawa says, heading up the stairs. He carries his shoes in his hand, an action that Hinata mimics as Hanamaki leads him the same way with Matsukawa trailing behind.

“That’s mother dearest’s dungeon,” Hanamaki tells him, pointing to the large double doors at the top of the stairs. “Don’t go in.” He motions to the left. “That’s all her stuff— her study, her office, her bathroom, whatever— just ignore that side of the house. My room and the guest beds are this way.”

Moving down the right path, Hinata notes the lack of framed photos and the abundance of framed awards, certificates, and plaques that read _HANAMAKI NANAE_ in various fonts. The floor beneath his feet is warm and made to seem like wood, glossy and spotless and spotting no signs of wear.

“Oikawa usually stays in this room,” Hanamaki says as Oikawa opens the door, flashing a quick smile as he tosses his things onto the bed. “There’s an adjoining en suite that both guest bedrooms share, so just be sure to either lock both doors or make sure no one is in there when you waltz in.”

Hanamaki walks up to the next door, pushing it open. “This is your room— feel free to drop your stuff and snoop.”

Hinata pokes his head in, eyes widening at the sight. The room is larger than his entire home, with a dresser that’s embedded into the wall and a bed that houses what must be no more than eight pillows. Behind it is a window, curtains pulled so that the room is engulfed in darkness. At the slightest movement, however, pot lights from the ceiling turn on, a sheet of glass that Hinata thought was a mirror brightening to begin scrolling through the weather forecast for the day. Hanamaki groans and storms in, crossing the room and turning it off. “The bathroom has soaps and stuff you can use. There’s a shower and bathtub, and a hairdryer under the sink. The lights are also on a timer, so you don’t have to worry about turning them off at night.”

“I— um— I think I’ll be more than fine,” Hinata stammers, rubbing the back of his neck.

Hanamaki grins, stepping back to exit the door and lean against Matsukawa’s shoulder. “Awesome,” he says. “Here, you can see my room too.”

They exit, walking to the last door on the hall. Unlike the others, this one slides open, no handle or lock like the rest of the rooms. Matsukawa steps in first, moving towards a walk in closet at the back of the room. Hinata follows, looking around slowly in disbelief. It’s _immaculate,_ the massive bed complete with hospital tight corners and floor clear of any stray things. A desk pushed up against the wall holds a small stack of books and a single framed photo, which upon further inspection, is of Hanamaki and two people he assumes are his parents. A woman rests her hand on his shoulder, her hair curled so that it rests angularly at her chin. Neither her nor the man sitting beside Hanamaki smile, their faces stoic, a stark contradiction to a younger Hanamaki, who grins so wide his eyes close shut.

“They both _hate_ that photo,” Hanamaki muses once he notices Hinata staring. Hinata jumps, turning to face him with an apology on his lips that is cut off when Hanamaki continues speaking. “So, what do you think?”

Hinata takes a moment, pursing his lips as he looks around. The room is in various shades of dark blue and green, deep blacks lining the rest. It isn’t what he expected from neon-windbreaker-and-red-eyeshadow Hanamaki, hair pinker than the pink drink from Yahaba’s party. He shrugs. “I thought it’d be more… messy,” he remarks.

Hanamaki laughs, though this time, it’s empty, his eyes glazing over as he rolls them. “Mother doesn’t do messy, as you may have noticed. She’s a stick in the mud with a stick up her ass, and not in the good way.”

Hinata nods, trying his best to sidestep the topic. “Where’s Matsukawa staying?” he asks instead, peering into the walk in closet just as Matsukawa steps out, having changed into a pair of black sweats and a red shirt.

“Oh, they’re staying together _all_ night,” Oikawa says from behind him. Hinata whips around to see Oikawa leaning against the doorway, grinning around another sucker. He’s changed out of his uniform too, the pair of whatever he wears well worn and hugging his thighs. “What kind of idea was it to invite us two over when you _finally_ have some alone time with Matsukawa and that king sized bed of yours?”

“Oh shut up, you know I’d never leave you two out to dry,” Hanamaki shoots back, before pausing. “Or whatever idiom matches with rain, since there’s a literal typhoon outside.”

“Soak?” Matsukawa offers, wrapping an arm around Hanamaki’s waist.

Hanamaki hums, leaning into him. “Yeah, that works.”

“Yeah yeah,” Oikawa hums cheerily, smiling around the stem. “Just try not to keep us up all night.”

“We won’t be _too_ loud,” Hanamaki says, grinning as he looks back at Matsukawa, who winks at him. Hanamaki mimes fanning himself. “Anyways, I should get changed out of this fucking shirt.”

Hinata’s eyes widen as his usual fluster succumbs to the realization that he’s stuck in his uniform. “Crap,” he mutters, looking down and pulling at the edges of his shirt. Oikawa instantly turns to him, somehow having heard the words muttered under his breath.

“I brought extra clothes,” he tells him, pulling the lolly out of his mouth to rest against his lips. “You can borrow them— it’d be my pleasure.”

Matsukawa whistles as heat rises up to Hinata’s cheeks. “Sure you two won’t be keeping _us_ up?”

Hinata tilts his head, furrowing his brow. “What…” he starts, voice trailing off as the implication of Matsukawa’s words dawns on him. “Oh. _Oh.”_  His cheeks darken and he becomes interested with the shiny floor and the faint reflection of his own shame he can see in it. Hanamaki laughs good-naturedly, but it does nothing to stop Hinata’s furious blush not only at the insinuation, but at the fact that he will soon be wearing Oikawa’s clothes.

He makes the mistake of meeting Oikawa’s eyes on his way out, not missing the smug look of satisfaction that plays across his face in the form of lidded eyes and a tilted smile as he follows him out.

His heart rate picks up as he steps into Oikawa’s room, Oikawa close behind as he moves to dig through his duffel bag. He doesn’t know what to say, and settles for silence as Oikawa presses a bundle of fabric into his arms. It’s hard not to become aware of their proximity, of how Oikawa takes a step closer than necessary, hands lingering on his for a moment too long before pulling away.

“They’ll be big, but I don’t think you’ll mind,” Oikawa tells him, voice low when it’s just them. He steps back, smiling growing as his eyes turn into crescents, seemingly innocent yet unnerving at the same time. Hinata wants to kiss that look off his face. He also wants to climb under the bed and never be seen again.

With more speed than he was aware he possessed, Hinata rushes to the bathroom and closes the door. He locks it shut behind him, and the other as well, before shedding his uniform, admiring the black marble with veins of white that makes up both the tub and shower wall. There is a large mirror with two sinks on the wall where the second door is, reflecting his full body blush as he unbuttons his shirt and shucks off his pants. He quickly turns away, looking at the clothes Oikawa had given him. They’re simple, nothing more than a pair of well worn jogging pants and a sweater with a deep v. They carry his scent though, of salt and old cotton and the heavy scent of his cologne, warming his bones as the fabric settles over his small frame. He ties the drawstring and rolls the pants legs, folding his uniform and leaving it on the counter with his shoes in a way he hopes is neat. As he catches his reflection, he realizes how the v-neck attempts to expose his entire shoulder. With a sigh, he tugs it back, stomach still fuzzy, chest light, mind skipping at his good luck— _him,_ wearing Oikawa’s clothes.

When he steps out of the bathroom, it’s to see Oikawa’s facing him as he lounges against the bed. He takes his time looking over Hinata’s appearance, brown eyes drinking in the sight before him. Hinata is sure the image of him drowning in fabric is ridiculous enough to make anyone laugh, but Oikawa stays silent, smirking when Hinata’s blush deepens at the close inspection. Nervously, he tugs on the collar of the shirt so that it rests higher on his shoulder and clears his throat. Trying not to think about the casual air of attraction Oikawa exudes as he rests one elbow on the headboard proves useless when he can see the lines of his collarbones, not quite as sharp as his gaze. His tongue darts out of his mouth to lick his lips, and Hinata’s ear begin to burn.

“Th— thank you for letting me borrow these,” Hinata stammers out, playing with the hem of the shirt.

“It’s not a problem, Shou-chan,” Oikawa says, waving a hand. “We should go downstairs, don’t you think?” Oikawa hums, pushing off the wall to walk up to Hinata. He stops a few inches away, their bodies close enough to touch as he tilts his head. “Wouldn’t want them to wonder where we’ve gone.”

Hinata nods, adam’s apple bobbing as Oikawa blinks slowly. A moment passes just like that, where neither speaks, before Oikawa steps forwards, allowing their bodies to brush as he sidesteps Hinata on his way into the hall. Hinata watches him go, the sure and graceful gait that carries him, the sway of his hips in pants Hinata wishes he saw more often. It takes a minute before he sighs, realizing all he’s done is stand in place as if frozen.

 _Guess I should follow him,_ Hinata thinks, and follows his shadow downstairs.

—

Hanamaki’s home includes rooms frivolous and without good use. There is a formal dining room _and_ a casual one, a large kitchen in the sunlight and one without windows and large, industrial counters that Hanamaki explains are standard for their chefs, and three different lounge areas. They spend most the night in the one with a television, shows idling in the background as they eat leftover food that tastes richer than anything Hinata has ever tried. Even reheated, the flavours are bold and plentiful, causing him to eat enough that he becomes embarrassed. It leaves him queasy for a half hour, his stomach unused to the rich food. No one comments, but Hinata refrains from asking for something to drink even when Matsukawa leaves to fetch soda from the fridge. He still grabs Hinata a can, rolling it his way with a quick smile. Thirsty, he downs the entire orange flavoured beverage, instantly regretting it. He sighs, looking towards the doorway. As much as he needs to pee, the Hanamaki house is too much of a maze to navigate alone.

“Hanamaki, how do I get to the washrooms again?” he asks, turning back with a frown.

Hanamaki, who is currently curled into Matsukawa’s side, attempting to poke Oikawa with his feet, sits up and untangles himself. “Here, there’s a closer one, I’ll show you,” he tells him, standing up. He grabs a few empty plates in one hand, and leads Hinata down and through the hall.

Most of the halls in Hanamaki’s home are dark. Though intricate fixtures hand from the ceiling and sparkle as the bulbs shine, the deep, ebony wood used to line most everything creates a kind of unsettling shade only aided by the strange shadows cast by decorative vases. Hanamaki whistles as he rounds another corner, cutting through the main _entertaining_ room as he had called it. Hinata’s steps slow as he takes a closer look at the room. Angular couches in a shade of deep teal become illuminateed as the fireplace automatically kicks on, the false display complete with the sounds of popping wood. Hinata looks up towards the mantel, and almost startles at what he finds resting atop it.

A sword hands from the wall, grey blade shining in the faux firelight. It’s a sizeable length, its hilt a deep shade of red that throws of the tones of blue that have been scattered throughout the house. Fashioned of some kind of wood, the hilt sports engravings too small for Hinata to see from this distance, but he does notice the sparkle of gold leaf from the small divots in the wood. It’s been lacquered with some kind of resin, appearing glossy and untouched from its home on the mantel.

Hanamaki looks back, and follows Hinata’s gaze. “Ah,” he says wryly, strolling back towards him. “I see you’ve found the family heirloom.”

Hinata tears his eyes to look back at Hanamaki, whose face is devoid of his usual smile. “Y-yeah,” Hinata stammers. “Is it just… for show?”

Hanamaki hums in assent, lips twisting into a scowl. “It is— funny, since I could probably use it with all the goddamn fencing she makes me take. Mother doesn’t let anyone touch it. Nearly lost a hand when I tried to take it down as a kid.” At that, he laughs, bitterness lacing his tone. Hinata doesn’t join in, not understanding the line between exaggeration and truth with Hanamaki’s stories yet. With a sigh, Hanamaki looks back at him. “There’s much more interesting things in this house than that old thing. Like me. Or Oikawa— his story is harder to figure out.”

Hanamaki steps away, walking back down the hall. Hinata follows with a sinking feeling in his stomach, quickening his pace to keep up. Hanamaki continues to whistle, free hand reaching out to drag along the wall as he walks. Behind them, the fireplace switches off, sword becoming engulfed in darkness.

After they both fulfill their respective tasks, things return to normal. Hanamaki smiles and flings himself across Matsukawa’s lap and pokes fun at Oikawa. Hinata can’t be sure if it’s an act, but goes along with it. He’s fairly occupied with watching how Oikawa’s lips play with the straw stuck in his cherry cola, chewing and biting the plastic through a smile. Their eyes meet throughout the night, and if Oikawa chooses to sit on the arm of the plush couch, right next to Hinata, then it can only be coincidence, even as his arm reaches down behind his back to rest on the back of the couch.

Music drowns out the sound of the rain battering against the walls, loud and familiar to everyone but him. But they all teach him the words, dancing with their arms as they sit and laugh. It isn’t hard to pick up on it, to join in on tossing candies into Matsukawa’s mouth, to feel in place in a scene not his own. His first sleepover, featuring a fugitive, a hacker, and one of the richest people Hinata has met.

It’s when Hanamaki leaves the room to grab something or another with Oikawa hot on his heels, the two rambling on, that Hinata looks to Matsukawa and asks the question dangling in his mind.

“How… how rich is he?” His voice is tentative, but Matsukawa seems neither offended or put off by the question.

“Extremely. His mother is the right hand of the current leader of the established country,” Matsukawa tells him, not bothering to keep his voice low in the way Hinata had.

“Established… country?” Hinata asks, mind struggling to process the exact seriousness of the title. _Right hand to the leader_ is enough to make him sit up straighter, to remember Suzumiya’s kiss assery on the first day of school, to piece together the very location of this home.

“There are people living in the mountains, apparently. Established country just means whatever the government can control, so _not_ a bunch of hippies that went off the grid when the old country collapsed,” he explains. “Hiro’s mom… she’s got her finger on the pulse, you could say. She seems to know everything.”

Hinata pales. “D-does she?”

Matsukawa raises a brow, interest sparking in his eye. “Maybe. I hope not— she’s as much as a bitch as Hiro says she is. Doesn’t matter that she probably knows government secrets and controls the city. She’s just a control freak once you take that all away.”

Hinata suddenly feels as if the walls have grown an inch closer. “Have you met her?”

Matsukawa holds up a single finger. “Once. Hiro isn’t allowed to have people over. I fix the cameras so no one knows. But… I slipped up.” He sighs, leaning further back. “She’s… something. I just wish I got the brunt of it instead of him.”

“Is that how you got into hacking?” Hinata asks, leaning onto his elbows, ignoring the pull at the back of his mind at Hanamaki’s mother’s description.

“Well, I took a coding class, but that’s the first… _practical_ application,” he says with a smile. “It’s definitely why I’ve gotten so good at it.”

Hinata hums, thinking over what he’s said. The implications with Hanamaki aside, he can’t help but feel intrigued with Matsukawa himself.

“You’re not very straight-laced,” Hinata comments.

“You’re fucking right about that,” Matsukawa snickers.

Hinata joins in, shaking his head. “I assumed _everyone_ would be at the Academy. I mean, it seemed so… posh.”

Matsukawa shakes his head. “I’m the furthest thing from that.” He pauses, eyes narrowing as his smile grows. “Here, let me show you something.”

Hinata furrows his brow in confusion as Matsukawa pulls down the collar of his shirt to expose black ink on his chest, curled into the design of a flower. It’s thinly lined and delicate for something so permanent, halfway between bud and bloom as it rests over his heart. Hinata’s eyes widen at the sight. “You— _where’d you get a tattoo?”_

“Level 24. They’re illegal without a doctor’s note here,” he tells him, with a grin. “You should tag along sometime.”

Hinata’s eyes flit back and forth between the tattoo and Matsukawa’s near teasing expression, mouth slightly ajar. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt nervously. “I— I don’t know if I should, I mean…”

“Oh? Is Hinata gonna get a tattoo?” Hanamaki calls on his way back into the room, two bottles held in each hand. “I swear, Iwaizumi has a secret one he’s hiding from us. There can’t be another reason why he didn’t stri—”

 _“Makki,_ you already have _one_ boyfriend,” Oikawa drawls in mock disdain, smiling wide.

“As nice as his arms are, Iwaizumi isn’t my type,” Hanamaki sighs a tad dramatically, already locking eyes with Matsukawa. “I prefer mine a little… taller.”

Oikawa snorts. “He’d wring your neck if he heard you say that.”

Hinata huffs, crossing his arms. “You’re all tall, why does it matter?”

Hanamaki full on cackles at that, taking a step and patting Hinata on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Hinata, I’m sure you’ll grow up big and strong, _just_ like Iwaizumi.”

Matsukawa snorts. “That image is a bit off putting. Big buff guy with a baby face.”

Hinata sputters, cheeks going up in flames. “Wha— ba—”

“Don’t make that face— it’s all part of your charm,” Oikawa says with a smile, eyes lazily drifting up and down him once, no effort made to hide the motion. Distantly, Hinata wonders if Oikawa has already committed him to memory, if the extent of his otherness makes him pick up on all of Hinata’s tells. Not that it’s needed now— Hinata is red enough that everyone in the room knows how Oikawa’s words affect him, if Hanamaki’s laughter and Matsukawa’s grin is anything to go by.

But as the night winds down and the lapses of laughter filled conversation grow longer, the truth of the matter sinks in, that Oikawa Tooru knows more about him than he lets on, not that he lets on much to begin with. There’s a glint in his eye when he says goodnight in the middle of the hallway between their two rooms, Hanamaki and Matsukawa already retired to theirs to do god knows what in relative privacy.

“Sleep tight,” Oikawa says, and his voice is low and smooth like every simple pleasure Hinata has experienced for the first time. He turns, body first, their eyes still locked as he looks over his shoulder before disappearing behind a closed door.

“You too,” Hinata whispers, and hopes by some ungodly chance, he hears.

—

The bed in the room Hinata stays in is large enough that he can sprawl out every limb, soft enough to mimic an embrace, and pushed next to the largest window he’s ever seen. In the dark of the stormy night, the gold embellishments only shine when a passing light flashes by— a pity, but Hinata didn’t stay here with the expectation of seeing the moon. He enjoys the initial feeling of relaxation his exhaustion and surroundings bring him, but it doesn’t take long for the gentle drift in and out of sleep to become jarring. The storm grows louder as the night goes on, wind howling against the house mournful and loud enough not to be drowned out by the ever present barrage of raindrops falling down. There are no leaks and Hinata is warm, but the knowledge that this isn't the case for his mother and sister looms over him with every moment that passes.

But what’s the worst of it all, the thing that drives all other worries out of his mind to make room for simple _fear,_ is the bright flashes across the sky and the following cracks of thunder. Every strike illuminates his entire room, blinding dilated eyes in the instant it takes for the light to fade, and every roll of incoming thunder shakes him to the core. He jumps as it climaxes with a sound too akin to explosions, hair raising on his neck each time it grows to a crescendo.

Thunder rattles once more, forcing Hinata to jump as his muscles coil tighter. He can feel the indents of his own fingernails through the sheets he grips, the covers yanked up to his chin. Even with his eyes shut, he can’t pretend the thunder is simply brute force echoing against steel— the lightning makes sure of that. He inhales sharply as another flash is immediately followed by another boom, yelping through a hoarse throat, caught off guard. Quickly, he slaps a hand over his mouth, ignoring the way it shakes. His limbs seem caught in a strange in between stage of adrenaline-fused buzzing and sluggish exhaustion negated only by the racing thoughts in his mind. He moves his hand from his mouth and it comes away slightly wet. Slowly, he touches his cheek, a tear rolling across his finger.

 _Crap,_ he thinks, breath already hiccuping. He hadn’t even noticed he had started crying.

He squeezes his eyes tightly together, forcing more tears to fall as the world goes dark. If he presses his face into the heavy pillow, the lightning flashes dull, but the thunder remains, loud and shaking him from any semblance of rest. _At least,_ he resigns, _the pillows muffle tears._

His next breath in is raggad, and on the exhale a clap of thunder leaves him crying out before he can stop it. He freezes, holding his knees closer to himself in effort to stop the next involuntary flinch only for a hand on his shoulder to force his body into motion.

He jolts upright and turns, hand reaching out to find the assailant he can’t yet see. A flash of lightning comes in time to illuminate them, revealing Oikawa, soft brown hair mussed with the telltale signs of bedhead, eyes wide and sharp, brows pinched but mouth not curled into a scowl that would suggest anger. He catches Hinata’s wrist in one hand, grip loose and hands cold as ice and shifts his weight to create a small dip in the bed. The light fades, Oikawa’s cheeks slowly becoming hollow as Hinata comes to terms with the situation: Oikawa sitting in his bed, holding his wrist, while Hinata is trembling and crying.

“O— Oi—”

Before he can worry further, thunder rumbles through the building once more. Without thinking, Hinata surges forwards, throwing his arms around Oikawa’s torso and burying his face into his chest. His muscles tense as the boom crackles through the air, Oikawa’s chest a solid force he can cling to. He sniffles as a hand strokes his hair, coming to rest between his shoulder blades and press him closer as the room grows silent once more.

“Shh,” Oikawa whispers, resting his chin on top of Hinata’s head. “It’s just thunder.”

“I— I don’t— I haven’t—” he stammers, hiccuping into Oikawa’s soft cotton shirt.

“You can’t hear thunder in the lower levels,” Oikawa says. “It’s loud here, but it won’t hurt you.”

Oikawa’s voice is soft, calming, smooth— _different._ It soothes Hinata’s tension for the moment, though his hands still cling onto the back of Oikawa’s shirt like a lifeline. Oikawa’s palms rub small, gentle patterns onto Hinata’s back, holding him steady when he flinches through another cycle of lightning and thunder. His limbs begin to grow heavy, and he slowly leans back to look Oikawa in the eye. He’s still shaking, but less so now.

“The storm centre is headed away from us now,” Oikawa tells him, hands moving to rest on his shoulders.

“How can— how can you tell?” Hinata asks. His voice catches through the grainy after effects of crying, enough that his voice jumps an octave.

“Thunder always follows lightning— light is faster than sound, you know that,” he explains in soft words. “Just count the seconds in between each.”

The room lights up, and Hinata tenses, counting in silent anticipation. Oikawa’s thighs press against his own through the heavy duvet, a testament to their physical closeness. He can smell the soft salt and cotton scent Oikawa carries with him even more now, enough that it distracts him from waiting for the thunder. The noise catches him off guard, leaving him to clutch onto Oikawa once more, whimper tearing through his throat. His tears are hot as they roll down his cheeks, soaking into Oikawa’s clothes.

“It’s t-too loud,” Hinata chokes, a thousand times too shaken to begin to feel shame. “I just— _I just want to sleep and—”_

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Oikawa whispers again, detaching him from his body so that he can look down at him, eyes piercing through the dark. “How about I cover your ears while you sleep so you don’t have to hear the thunder?”

“Please,” Hinata murmurs, leaning back so that he can lie against the pillows. The mattress absorbs some of his tension, but it's quickly replaced once Oikawa lies down beside him, the covers separating their bodies. Cold hands reach around to cover his ears, muting the world and leaving him with only the sound of his pulse thrumming in his ears. As the fear and adrenaline begin to fade, he finds himself staring at Oikawa, at his glassy eyes that shine with each bolt of lightning, the rumbling of thunder becoming no more than a hum that combines with that of his pounding heart. He can feel his cheeks warm as their eye contact persists, and Hinata knows Oikawa can feel it with his hands so close to his face. Even as his eyes begin to droop, Oikawa remains, each sleepy, drawn out blink revealing Oikawa, smiling ever so slightly, their faces close enough that their noses could touch. When Oikawa closes his eyes, Hinata can faintly see the shadows of scars that run across his lids. When he opens them, they disappear, revealing only him and nothing more.

—

Hinata doesn’t remember falling asleep. It’s still raining when he comes to, heavy enough to drone on and on alongside the howling winds, but there is no trace of the thunder that haunted him that night. The lights in the bedroom have slowly begun to lift, creating a fake kind of daylight that seemingly stems from the windows even with the storm that surges outside. The light brightens his eyelids, leaving him to rub his face and squirm, blearily opening his eyes to face the new day.

He’s met with the sight of Oikawa’s sleeping visage, still facing him the way he was that night. Heat rises to his cheeks at the memory of the night before— _tear stained cheeks and cotton shirts and cool hands on his ears—_ forcing him to face the fact that _Oikawa_ had come to his aid, that _Oikawa_ had spent the night lying next to him to make sure he could fall asleep. Now, with him sleeping and Hinata awake, all he can do is stare.

Oikawa’s hair is mussed in small tangles, his swept bangs pushed away to reveal to rest of his forehead and brows. There are soft shadows and imprints of the sheets on his cheeks, his eyelashes resting on them in slight curves. He lacks the freckles that Hinata has gained so quickly with his daily exposure to the sun, skin instead marred by the odd scar too small to see from far away. The two straight edged ones usually hidden by his eyelids are on display now, too precise, too clean to be from an accident. Hinata sighs, gaze trailing down to Oikawa’s lips, pink and soft and parted as breath filters through them, and feels a twinge in his chest, because _someone_ gave Oikawa those scars and, for better or for worse, he can’t even remember.

And Oikawa, so vulnerable now, is the same Oikawa who threatened him in the empty halls of the academy, is the same Oikawa who watches him with a lolly bulging in his cheek from across the room, is the same Oikawa who frantically and begrudgingly accepted his trust despite whatever inside him. And Oikawa, with his hardened edges and sharp, sweet tongue, tantalizing words and body alike, held him until he slept. Hinata wonders how often he gets to be this _unguarded,_ wonders how lucky he is that this happened with him.

Something within Hinata swells.

 _Oh,_ he realizes. _I want him to always be like this with me._

And maybe this isn’t just physical attraction, because Oikawa is just lying there with hair a nest on his head and here Hinata is, lamenting about the softness of chapped lips and the tender way he leaves himself open as if to call out for touch. And carefully, aided by the simple truth that Oikawa is sleeping, Hinata brushes his fingers through Oikawa’s hair, combing through a small tangle to feel the soft texture between his fingers. He prays that this won’t be the last time he ever sees Oikawa like this, prays that by some miracle, he’ll find himself lying next to him without a storm to force them together. He watches Oikawa sleep and _hopes_ because that is what has allowed him to survive this long with such a bleeding heart in his ribcage.

(But even so, he’s none the wiser that Oikawa lies awake under his touch, eyes closed and expression schooled as he receives the rarest kind of intimacy he’s never known. And if, by some coincidence, he has a realization too, Hinata never notices.)

—

It’s three days before he can go home. The weekend passes and by the time the bell rings on Monday, the elevators have been cleared for use once more. The surface shows little damage from the typhoon besides being shut down for a few days— some trees lack leaves or branches, but structural integrity worth billions holds the swerving train tracks in place despite the winds and rain. He thanks Hanamaki again before leaving for home, knowing that their friendship, along with Matsukawa’s, has grown stronger. Oikawa remains a separate topic, one Hinata is too nervous to even broach.

The elevator runs smoothly, screeching metal now occupied by the sounds of water rushing through and over drain systems and gutters. The odd splash hits his head, leaving his uniform damp and hair flattened as he plumments towards level 33. Three days is the longest he’s been without seeing his mother and sister, and by now, the full weight of his anxiety comes to rest on his shoulders as his mind races. The elevator screeches to a stop, and through the bars he sees his mother, Natsu clutching at her shirt, both smiling as the doors open.

The reunion that follows is only dampened by the fact that they’re pushed out of the elevator loading area while still locked in an embrace, Hinata’s mother running her hands over his cheeks with creased eyes and a wide smile. Both her and Natsu’s clothes are damp, so obviously caused by the water seeping through any and every crack in the steel above them. What water lines the ground soaks through Hinata’s shoes and he can’t even be bothered to frown, because Natsu climbs up on his shoulders and talks about missing him and stray cats and seemingly nothing has changed. The walls and floor and _everything_ in their home is wet, and the chill that races through Hinata is as bad as it ever gets, but his smile never leaves. That night, Natsu will lie next to him, taking up too much room for a tiny five year old girl, and Hinata will be happy that in the end, everyone is safe.

And when he sleeps, he’ll dream of Oikawa and lightning and scarred brown eyes, the rest he gains a shadow of what he got when Oikawa laid at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daily reminder if you comment or hit us up on twitter (@mookzymooks and @lesbianiwaizumi) you will gain Cool New Insight in the form of :3c 
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> also you'd make our days
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> thanks for reading!


	4. recede

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELCOME TO: gays do crimes... shit happens and they be gay and this chapter is NOW HERE for you to see! let us know what you think!

Hinata, not for the first time, heads to school hungry.

It’s a day like any other when he wakes up, packs his things, and is pulled aside by his mother, who tells him in a tone too heavy with guilt, that the markets were empty the night before.

“I guess everything was bought, so they closed up,” she admits, rubbing her neck. “I have some spare change— could you get anything up there?”

Hinata hesitates before nodding. The vending machines, at least, take cash, everything else sporting exorbitant prices operated by robots with no need for change, but he’d rather his mother keep every cent for when she returns to look around than take it himself. He takes it anyways, if only because he knows she’ll worry, and heads towards the elevator with emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

It’s an eerie morning, with no stragglers being fought off when he enters and no shouting echoing through the level. He wonders if his mind is just subdued from lack of sleep— Natsu had elbowed him enough that night that he’s sure there are bruises on his side. As the elevator rockets up, he rubs his eyes, swaying with the mechanics, alreadying knowing that the day will be long.

A morning filled with toe tapping, leg bouncing, and all his science classes later, he finds himself sitting on the roof with a fuller stomach, his friends having each given him pieces of food the moment he showed up without a lunch. It’s normal, save for Oikawa, who could hardly be called normal in any sense. Today, he balances Matsukawa’s laptop on his knees as he scans through something with sharp eyes and hunched shoulders. He doesn’t participate much in the idle conversation the other four carry, but hums and snickers where appropriate, sometimes going as far to lift his eyes and shoot knowing glares. Every so often, Matsukawa leans to look over his shoulder at the screen before sitting down, but doesn’t press until Oikawa shuts the laptop with enough force for Hinata to jump, even though he was watching.

“I have information,” Oikawa announces, a smile splitting across his face. “And a plan.”

Everyone tenses. Iwaizumi scowls, leaning back slowly as Hanamaki narrows his eyes. “Is this about—”

“Yes,” Oikawa answers smoothly, smile still fixed. He looks over to Hinata, and catches his eye.

“You sure you wanna talk about that here?” Iwaizumi asks, eyes flitting around.

“Always paranoid, aren’t you?” Oikawa muses, looking over his shoulder for a moment.

Iwaizumi scoffs. “Like you’re one to talk.”

“It’s too windy for anyone to hear us— we’re fine, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa leans onto his elbows, tongue darting out to lick his lip. “Let me start at the beginning. We all know the government has eyes everywhere, yes?” The question is rhetorical, but he looks pointedly at Hanamaki before continuing. “Therefore, even if whoever messed with me isn’t affiliated with them, they’re bound to at least know about it. That means the best source of information is government operatives.”

 _“Oikawa,”_ Iwaizumi hisses. “You can’t just—”

 _“Ex-_ government operatives. You know, the ones pushed into the crime syndicates underneath, avoiding certain death or what have you because of fraud or treason,” he elaborates, eyes gleaming at Iwaizumi’s anger, as if he takes pleasure in poking a sleeping bear, even if said bear is his best friend. “Mattsun has been helping me track down whoever we can off of wanted lists, and we just found the whereabouts of someone who’s information could be _very_ useful.”

Hinata swallows thickly, fingers tapping against his thigh. “How— what makes you think they’ll tell you what they know?” he asks, trying in vain to lace the concern in his voice.

Oikawa looks back at him, the excitement in his eyes sharpening into something a shade different. “Oh, they’ll talk,” he says, a layer of nonchalance in his tone somehow enough to send a shiver down Hinata’s spine.

Hanamaki whistles, shaking his head. “Alright then. What’s your plan?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Oikawa says with a grin. “It involves heading down to Level 24.”

“That’s where the guy who tattooed me is,” Matsukawa comments. “He might know something.”

“The plan is to ask around— check where he frequents, hunt him down, that kind of thing. I’m sure once we find him, Iwa-chan will accompany me in the negotiations,” Oikawa explains, eyes glinting as he looks towards his best friend.

Iwaizumi huffs. “Surprised you’re not insisting on doing it alone.”

Oikawa lets out a soft laugh. “I would, but you’d just insist on going with me.”

Hanamaki frowns, hunching over and running a hand through his hair. “Listen, guys, Oikawa— I want to help. Trust me, I do.” He inhales deeply, looking down for a moment. “But you know as well as I do that there’s no way I can go through a legal checkpoint without getting skinned alive.”

There’s a sobering moment where Oikawa’s smile drops. “Hey,” he says, voice quiet as he reaches forwards to flick Hanamaki’s arm. “We’re in the same boat. I’ve got a way around that, if you’re willing to take the risk.”

Hanamaki’s eyes light up with mischief as he looks up, tilting his head. “Well then, count me in.”

Oikawa nods, leaning back. He twists his body so that his weight rests on one hand planted on the ground, head lulled to the side in a lazy manner, gaze ensnaring Hinata’s entire focus. “And what about you?”

“You _want_ me to come?” Hinata asks, the words slipping out of his mouth with enough cheek that he can half regret them.

Oikawa shrugs one shoulder, lips tugging up into a smirk. “I think you’ve proven yourself. So what’s the verdict, Shou-chan?”

Hinata’s stomach tightens, something within him glowing at the recognition, at the roundabout praise. He can’t fight the grin that works its way up to his face, but he can fight down the nervousness and fear because Oikawa is looking at him with eyes dark and wonderous, this _thing_ between them swelling to accommodate new growth.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is breathy but _sure._ “I’m coming with you.”

Oikawa grins, and Hinata’s heart skips a beat. “Perfect.”

—

Hinata, Iwaizumi, and Matsukawa stand pressed together in the elevator, hands gripping onto each other for balance as it whizzes down. It’s the same one that Hinata usually uses, and at this point, he’s come to assume it’s saved for longer rides between levels. Hinata, shivering in his thin striped shirt— the only thing long sleeved and dry enough to consider wearing in this weather— watches as the different levels whiz past.

“What are things like in the 20s?” Hinata asks, looking towards Iwaizumi. “Is it as… rundown as where I am?”

Iwaizumi chews the inside of his cheek, thinking for a moment. “It’s a bit more built up, less empty space. Crowded,” he tells him, shouting slightly over the grinding metal. “Levels 17 through 25 are where most of the organized crime in Neo Tokyo has been pushed to. I’d still watch out for pickpockets, though.”

Hinata nods, reaching out to grip onto the sleeve of whoever was closest— in this case, Matsukawa— as the elevator grinds to a halt. They all lurch forwards, doors swinging open as military officers grab onto their shoulders and push them out, grumbling all the while. Iwaizumi scoffs and Matsukawa keeps his mouth shut, both taking a stance relatively close to Hinata as he inspects his surroundings.

Everything on Level 24 is built from metal, and it shines from the bright lights plastered on buildings left and right. There’s a level of structure that Level 33 lacks, in the form of businesses without signs and people gathering in the gaps, flashing signs that flicker as if they are just dangling on by threads before being  in complete disrepair. A scantily clad woman smokes a cigarette while leaning up against a beam— she eyes them and blows a kiss, smoke filtering out into the heavy air.

“Come on,” Iwaizumi says, pulling up his hood. “Let’s meet the others.” Hinata nods, taking a step closer to Iwaizumi and holding onto the back hem of his jacket nervously. Iwaizumi shoots him an amused glance, but allows it nonetheless, Matsukawa taking up the rear.

Iwaizumi leads them through the winding streets— if they could be called that. The alleyways between blocks of metal framed buildings zag in every direction, canopied by electrical lines that occasionally spark and dance down. There is a steady bustle of people on foot who walk without a care, but Iwaizumi keeps them to the sides and shadows, and for good reason. Without warning, cars and motorbikes race past in flashes of neon colours, lighting up the entire street and sending people scrambling to the sides as they hurl curses at fading tail lights. Iwaizumi clicks his tongue and shakes his head, jerking away from a man who reaches out to touch his shoulder from a back door entrance. Hinata is shaken more by the amount of people than anything else— he has had his fair share of hagglers and people with wandering hands, but never in the sheer amount present here. For that reason, he stays close and silent, not letting his guard down until Iwaizumi stops in a small, half finished construction site filled with long rusted beams.

“They should be any minute now,” he tells them, gaze looking up. Hinata furrows his brow, keeping his grip on Iwaizumi’s jacket tight as he steps out and follows his gaze to see a gap in the thick metal plating that separates the levels. His eyes go wide at the sight. There isn’t much to see, with no light shining down from the gap to indicate that anyone is the wiser about the breach of security.

Well, anyone but Oikawa, of course.

The first tell of his arrival is the rattling. It’s a sound Hinata is used to, living in a metal home in a metal city built above and below _more_ metal. But now, it’s _loud,_ accompanied by the low rev of an engine that only precedes the beams of headlights by a few moments.

Suddenly, a flash of red shoots down from the gap, tires squealing as they find purchase on the network of beams. Hinata holds his breath as Oikawa wrenches the handlebars of a bright red motorbike to the left, the entire front half of it turning at a sharp angle to catch the next beam before surging lower, and lower, twisting and turning with expert precision. It’s a blur that only slows when it screeches to a halt in front of him, giving him the first clear sight of Oikawa and Hanamaki sitting on it. Both grin like mad men, no helmets to be seen. The curved seat is built level to the tires, so that the glass windshield almost curves over their heads. Hanamaki is first to step off, standing up and swinging his leg over the seat as he tucks his hands into his pockets, short hair sticking up in every which way. He and Matsukawa meet each other halfway, Hanamaki’s arms already thrown up to wrap around Matsukawa’s shoulders as he’s pulled in for a kiss, neither caring for their friends who stand nearby. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and Hinata blushes, making an effort not to stare. It’s easy enough— Oikawa is right in front of him, afterall.

He hops off of the motorbike and runs a hand through his hair, leather jacket catching his black tank as it rides up, exposing the toned planes of his stomach. Unceremoniously, he drops his arm, pulling a sucker from his pocket and popping it in his mouth as his eyes trail over towards Hinata. The sucker pauses halfway up his tongue, and Hinata’s entire body begins to heat up as trained eyes narrow. Oikawa stalks towards him, not minding the way Hinata’s blush has turned his face red, instead reaching to where Hinata still grips Iwaizumi’s jacket. In one swift movement, he yanks his hand away, intertwining their fingers and squeezing his hand.

“Did you have a nice trip down?” he asks, face finally splitting into smile, eyes closed as if he were innocent and not staring at him like prey a moment ago.

Hinata only manages to stammer, mind too caught up on _his hand, my hand, he’s holding my hand, he’s holding my hand_ to begin to process anything else. Beside them, Iwaizumi sighs, taking a step away as Oikawa, much to Hinata’s inner behest, drops his hand.

“You’re almost as bad as _them,”_ Iwaizumi grumbles as Oikawa walks towards the bike, hands steering it towards a nearby building.

Oikawa looks over his shoulder, smirk plastered across his face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, eyes narrowed and sucker pushing against his cheek. He reaches out and grips onto a groove in the metal sheeting of the building, following the edge towards the ground. With one heave, it’s pulled up above his head, revealing a tiny space only big enough to barely fit his bike. Hinata watches as he stows it away, aware, in the back of his mind, of how his eyes trail from his broad shoulders to the small of his back to his ass. He looks away before Oikawa shuts the door and turns back around, but still feels as if he’s been caught looking.

“Mattsun,” Oikawa drawls, voice edging on a whine. “Are you done making out or can you show us to this tattoo place already?”

Hanamaki pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “We’re done,” he tells them, voice hitched slightly, smile lazy.

“For now,” Matsukawa finishes, still draped over Hanamaki’s shoulders. “Here, I’ll lead the way. You’ll probably get something useful from them— they have their connections where it counts.”

Oikawa hums, motioning with one hand for him to move on as he walks towards Hinata. Hinata flicks his eyes back towards Iwaizumi, only to find him moving forwards, shaking his head. He jumps as an arm rests around his shoulders, looking up as Oikawa pulls him tightly into his side and begins to follow the others, leading him along. Hinata can’t bring himself to tense, almost leaning into the warmth of his body and the soft, worn texture of the dark leather jacket. That warmth spreads through his chest, because Oikawa _chose_ to be this close to him, to rest his hand on his upper arm. Hinata walks fast to match his long strides, trying his best not to dumbly stare up at the sharp line of his jaw and shadows of his cheeks and instead focus on his surroundings. Loud _bangs_ echo in the distance, accompanied by shouts, and ahead, Hinata can see Hanamaki flinch. Part of him wonders what he thinks of all this, of the puddles and the drips and the persisting scent of smoke and sulfur. Most of him is distracted by Oikawa’s hold as it slips lower, hand resting on his hip in a way Hinata can only call _protective,_ and, by comparison to the affection so often displayed by Hanamaki and Matsukawa, _intimate._

“O-Oikawa?” Hinata says, voice catching, ears burning. He looks up as Oikawa tilts his head in question, slowly pulling out his sucker.

“What is it?” he ask, smiling knowingly.

Hinata swallows. “Why are you…” He glances down to where Oikawa’s hand splays on his side, pulling him tighter against him.

Oikawa hums, a note of recognition. “Because,” he answers simply, fingers drumming against his hip. “You’ll be safer if you’re by my side.”

Hinata snaps his eyes up to him, meeting his gaze. “I— I live nine levels lower than this,” he states, knowing very well that Oikawa is aware.

“My point still stands. Humour me, Shou-chan,” he says, and though Hinata has shown himself stubborn before, Oikawa shows no room to argue. It’s not as if he’d want to in the first place, not when Oikawa’s body is wrapped so nicely against his own, in a way Hinata can admit to himself he’s been craving.

They duck underneath a low beam that stands as a support between two buildings, following Matsukawa as he makes his way through the darkened alley. There’s little light save a dim, flickering lamp at the end of the small alley, casting oddly angled shadows across the metallic walls. The door is marked with a scarlet insignia of an ouroboros, fading at the edges and likely stencil with spray paint. But, instead of twin snakes biting at their own tails, the design depicts _cats,_ no more menacing than the strays that scamper past on the odd occasion. Hinata stares, puzzled, as Matsukawa pushes open the door. It moves slow, but doesn’t grind the way most of the metal structures Hinata has encountered do— likely oiled to be silent.

The five walk in, Hinata blinking as his eyes adjust to the sudden bright, industrial light indoors. It’s warmer here, concrete floors covered with fraying polyester rugs that have long since lost their colour. The walls, a smooth, reflective surface, are almost completely covered in glossy photographs and thick paper, each depicting wild designs and photos of tattoos freshly inked. The room, while sporting comfortable ceilings, is small, split in half by a black desk that fronts large double doors. No one sits on the stool, leaving them completely alone.

They aren’t waiting a minute before the double doors are pushed open by a boy no older than the third years. His cool brown skin is decorated with black drawings that disappear under the fabric of his shirt, peeking up onto his neck, black hair peaked only to flop over one eye. His grin is toothy as he spots Matsukawa, pierced brows raising at the side as he walks forwards to rest his elbows on the desk.

“Matsukawa!” he exclaims, voice a flowing tenor. “You brought friends!”

Oikawa’s arm leaves Hinata’s side as he stalks forwards to stand next to Matsukawa. “I thought you guys could give us a hand with something.”

The boy’s eyes narrow as he looks over the bunch. “Well, you tell me,” he drawls, gaze catching as he notices Matsukawa’s arm around Hanamaki. He looks towards him, pointing a finger that sports a geometric design that trails all the way up his wrist. “You must be… Hiro, right?”

Hanamaki’s eyes flicker between Matsukawa and the boy as he nods, keeping his usual lazy disposition. “The one and only. And you are…?”

The boy straightens, taking a look at the group as a whole. “Kuroo Tetsurou. And who might the rest of you be?”

Hinata can’t shake the feeling that he’s being analyzed, taken apart. “H-Hinata,” he speaks up, wandering closer to Oikawa’s side, eyes darting towards the designs on the walls.

Iwaizumi speaks next, before Kuroo can respond. “Iwaizumi.”

Kuroo nods, gaze drifting over to Oikawa, who pulls the sucker from his mouth to lick. “And you?”

Oikawa raises a brow. “My reputation doesn’t precede me?”

At that, Kuroo laughs, rolling his eyes. “Oh, of course it does. But I don’t want to assume.”

Oikawa grins, biting down on the candy. “Oikawa Tooru. Why don’t we head to the back to talk?”

Kuroo pauses a moment before motioning them forwards, around the desk and through the double doors. Hinata steps forwards, feeling a hand splay against his lower back. When he looks to see Oikawa pressed close to him, guiding him forwards, he can’t be surprised.

The room they enter is slightly larger, with two chairs with stools and several metal tables and lamps positioned around them. A boy with bleached tips and grown out roots looks up from where he was wiping down one of the chairs, bangs falling away from his face. There’s a small tie holding back a section of his hair, but it’s long since fallen out, only holding enough hair back to expose pierced ears with silver studs and hoops. He’s tattooed, just as Kuroo is, but makes no other move to acknowledge them besides staring, simply going about his work, putting away needles and ink.

“We’ve got guests, Kenma,” Kuroo announces, as if he hadn’t yet noticed. Kenma makes a small hum of assent, turning his back on everyone in disinterest. Kuroo smiles, then focuses his attention back on Oikawa. “So, I’m assuming you’re not here for a tattoo.”

“Mattsun said you might have information on someone named Takenaka Hayato,” Oikawa states. His hand slides across Hinata’s back as he wanders forwards, eyes sweeping across the room.

Kuroo’s posture changes, smile dropping as he leans up against one of the patient chairs. “Well, if it’s _that_ kind of business you want, then you’ll understand me asking you to put your heat on the table.” He motions to one of the examination tables between them with his chin.

Hinata bites his lip, looking towards Oikawa with confusion as he reaches into his jacket, pulling out a handgun. He smiles around his sucker as he places it on the table, and Hinata’s entire body freezes because _Oikawa was carrying a gun this whole time._

“All good?” Oikawa asks, crossing his arms.

“I’d think so,” Kuroo replies. “So, Takenaka Hayato. Out of _all_ the kinds of scum you could choose, huh?”

“Scum is scum,” Matsukawa says with a shrug. “He’s who we could track down.”

“Well, here’s some free knowledge for you all. All the gangs and the syndicates that sell to the surface have ties to the government. Power is power, money is money,” Kuroo says. He steps towards the table, leaning his elbows onto it. “Those scumbags are the basic ones. What _you’ve_ got yourselves is the kinda guy operating in the _true_ shadows. If you’re wanted by the government, then you’ve got a _pretty_ big price on your head. But those are the kinda guys that sell the best information, so…” He shrugs.

Oikawa laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “Mattsun, you didn’t tell me your tattoo artist was an information broker,” he says. “Well then, we know he was charged with conspiracy, but that could mean anything.”

“That and money laundering. Figures, since he was in charge of finance and budgeting. Word is that he wanted in on Hanamaki Nanae’s job— some say that being the right hand to the most powerful man in the country is better than taking his job.”

Kuroo speaks slow, with a careful kind of crafted disinterest Hinata can only pick up on because he’s spent time around Oikawa these past months. But at the mention of his mother's name, Hanamaki stills. Hinata watches from the corner of his eye as he stands frozen, facing a wall of inked designs, Matsukawa at his side but facing the opposite way.

“But that was years ago, wasn’t it?” Matsukawa asks.

“They don’t care. As soon as you oppose the government, you’re a liability. I’m sure we all can attest,” Kuroo answers.

“We have his location, but we need the password to get in,” Oikawa says, and he’s changed his posture now to tower slightly, shifting his weight off of his heels. “Would you have that?”

Someone behind him snorts softly. Hinata whips around to see Kenma, tossing out needles. “Not for free,” he mumbles.

Hinata looks back at Oikawa, who has yet to budge. Neither seem fazed as Kuroo continues with a wide grin. “That’s business.”

A tense silence fills the room as the five grow a little closer to each other. Hinata, unsure if he should approach Oikawa when he’s in the midst of a staring contest, plays with the collar of his shirt.

“How much do you want?” Hanamaki says, breaking the silence. “Name a price and I’ll wire it to you.”

Kuroo cocks his head. “Oh? And you’re not dealing in cash? Confident you won't get tracked?” he asks. “I’m not interested in money, though I _am_ interested in how you got yours. But information is information, so you trade yours and I’ll tell you how to meet your friend.”

Oikawa purses his lips. “What do you want to know?”

“What you’re looking for.” The response is immediate, as if Kuroo had been wondering since he walked through the door. “You’ve taken out seven syndicate men in five minutes and lived to tell the tale, and yet you’re _still_ pushing into the darkest cracks of society. Anyone worth anything has heard the rumours about you. You’re _deadly,_ but everyone has a motive.”

Oikawa takes a moment to mull that over as the lights above them flicker and brighten. Hinata fidgets and counts his heart beats until Oikawa comes up with an answer. He pulls the stem of the finished lolly from his mouth and holds it between his fingers, flicking it into the trash. “I want to figure out what the government does when no one is watching. What better way than to follow the money and to see where that goes?”

“Follow the money,” Kuroo repeats. His eyes drift over to Hanamaki, whose found himself tucked under Matsukawa’s arm. “How _do_ get your money, Hiro?”

Hanamaki doesn’t flinch. “My mother makes enough that I can take without being caught.” _Usually_ goes unsaid between them.

“Must be a cushy job. Corporate?” he asks.

Hinata watches as Hanamaki’s knuckles go white as he grips Matsukawa’s side. “Government.”

“But you must not think very highly of them if you’re here of all places,” Kuroo remarks.

“He froze when you mentioned Hanamaki Nanae,” Kenma interjects, slipping from the shadows to stand beside Kuroo. “Doesn't she have a son?”

Kuroo hums, giving Hanamaki a once over. “She does, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Hanamaki says simply. “And a husband who hung himself ten years ago.”

Hinata’s blood goes cold, the room falling into a kind of silence only broken by a sharp intake of air. Kuroo’s smile drops from his face for a moment of sheer shock, eyes wide and mouth hanging agape. Oikawa takes a step closer to Hinata as his eyes flick between the gun on the table and Kuroo, who simply shakes his head.

“Well fuck, if that isn’t a family secret,” he says on an exhale. He takes a moment longer to process the information before looking back up at Hanamaki. “What’s your name, Hiro?”

“Hanamaki Takahiro.” He smiles wryly, resting his head onto Matsukawa’s shoulder. “Mother always said I had my father’s looks.”

“Is that good enough for you?” Oikawa interrupts, voice sweet, carrying the same lilt as his jests. In any other situation, it’s amusing— Hinata senses the small condescending tone as he smirks and crosses his arm.

Kuroo looks to Kenma, who looks away. “That was more than you expected,” Kenma murmurs.

“But enough for the password and anything else you’d want to know,” Kuroo states, shock now turning into glee. “Seriously— it seems we’ve all gained allies today. That’s enough that I’ll throw in a tattoo, free of charge.”

“Iwa-chan and I will take the password,” Oikawa says, reaching out to grab his gun and tuck it back into his jacket. “But I’m sure the rest would be welcome hanging here until we’re back.”

“They’ll ask you _what’s your poison._ Tell them _two drops of ocean and a whole gallon of bleach,”_ Kuroo explains, still smiling. “Do you need anything before you head that way?”

“We’ll live.” Oikawa grins. “He’s the least of my worries. Thanks, Kuroo-chan. Have fun with these three.” He brushes past Hinata, stopping to cup a hand to his chin and lean down, lips momentarily brushing against his cheek. “Don’t miss me too much, _Shou-_ chan,” he whispers, voice melting Hinata’s nerves in the instant it takes for him to move past him and out the door, Iwaizumi close behind. Hinata’s breath catches, ears and cheeks turning red in his absence, the phantom tingle of his voice thrumming through him enough to make him flustered.

Kuroo curses with Oikawa out of his sight, shaking his head. “You’ve got me in your debt now.”

“What do you even _do_ with all that information?” Hanamaki asks, voice curious, but eyes narrow. He moves to jump up onto the table, Matsukawa hovering at his side.

Kuroo shrugs. “Mostly, it’s to keep out of trouble, keep a handle on things. We only share with people that don’t report back to the showrunners of this whole thing. Oikawa is the furthest from that.”

Hinata shakes his head as his mind pieces together what he’s heard. Oikawa, with a _dangerous_ reputation, who runs from the tests and the cameras, who doesn’t remember where he came from, who doesn’t trust a new face. It should be enough to confuse him, and yet, the picture of Oikawa, the same Oikawa who held him through the stormy night, only becomes clearer.

“Anyways, that offer still stands— the tattoo, I mean,” Kuroo tells them. He looks to Matsukawa, who shakes his head. “Alright, what about you two?”

Hanamaki laughs. “Yeah, I couldn’t. Maybe one day.” He turns to Hinata, who still stands fixed in his spot from when Oikawa left. “Hinata, you up for it?”

Hinata blinks, picturing Oikawa’s lips, hearing his voice play over in his head. _Screw it._

“Yeah,” he says, braving the first real smile since he walked through the door. “Why not?”

Matsukawa whistles, face splitting into a smile as Hanamaki laughs. “Hell yeah!”

Kuroo looks no more surprised than he already is. He gives Hinata a once over, eyes critical and sharp. “Alright then, let’s do this,” he says with a grin, turning to grab a pair of black latex gloves. “Any design on the wall is up for grabs, so it’s your pick.”

Hinata nods, swallowing thickly as his eyes scan over the pieces of thick paper taped to the walls. He looks over the different letterings and images of geometric shapes encasing flowers and trees, the animals that look as if they were painted with a brush instead of drawn. He runs his fingertips over the pages, eyes drifting to a small, haphazardly hung page. He tugs it off the wall, staring down at the image— a feather in mid fall, a flock of tiny birds taking off from the tip. He holds it up to the light, examining the small, purposeful brushstrokes, and turns to Kuroo.

“Found one!” he calls out. Kuroo looks over from the black client chair. Hinata holds up the design, and his eyes light up.

“Oh, nice, that design has been there for ages,” he says as Matsukawa and Hanamaki wander over to inspect the design. “Where do you want it?”

Hinata pauses, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He raises a hand to play with his collar, fingertips brushing over his clavicle. “Could— what about here?” he says, pressing his fingers onto the bone.

Kenma looks up from his spot on a nearby stool. “That’s brave,” he remarks.

Kuroo tilts his head, taking the design from Hinata and staring at it for a few moments. “I think it’ll look really nice there. Just take a seat while I finish setting everything up. You’ll have to take that shirt off too.”

Hinata nods, feeling a rush of excitement in his blood as he hops onto the chair. He tugs his shirt off, tossing it to Matsukawa, who sets it onto a bench. Kuroo places a few things onto the small tray beside the chair and settles onto his stool. He takes a cotton puff and pours disinfectant onto it, reaching over to begin swabbing at Hinata’s skin. It’s cool, and he flinches, earning him a snicker from Kuroo.

“Easy. It’ll be a bit painful, but I won’t hurt you,” Kuroo says, tossing the cotton swab away. “I get the feeling Oikawa would kill me if I did.”

Hinata blushes once more, hardly noticing as the tattoo gun begins to buzz. He shuts his eyes and finds himself smiling, having half the mind to wonder what Oikawa will think when the whole thing is said and done.

—

Kuroo has only just finished taping the ink when Oikawa and Iwaizumi walk back in. Hinata quickly looks over them both, spotting no differences. There is no blood, no bruises, no evidence of a struggle at all. Oikawa simply strolls back in, gaze landing on Hinata, shirtless and staring right back at him. Oikawa continues forwards, ignorant to the conversation the others start with Iwaizumi as he quirks his lips and hovers above Hinata, eyes wide as they sweep over his entire body.

“You got a tattoo?” he asks, voice laced with genuine surprise. Hinata nods, feeling his blush creep up his neck to colour his skin. Oikawa must notice how the flush creeps over his shoulders, because his eyes trail past the bandaged tattoo, pupils widening.

“I-it was free, and no one else wanted one, so…” Hinata's voice trails off as Oikawa hums, setting his hand onto the opposite collarbone as the tattoo.

“You never fail to surprise me,” he murmurs, touch ice on Hinata’s burning skin. “But that's just one of your charms, isn't it?”

Iwaizumi clears his throat before Hinata can begin to come up with a reply. “We should be going,” he says, unimpressed.

“D-did you find what you needed to?” Hinata asks, peeking up at Oikawa from underneath his eyelashes.

“We got what we could,” Oikawa answers. His touch leaves Hinata as he backs up. “The bike is waiting just up front. Why don’t you put your shirt back on and I’ll give you a ride to the elevator? That way Iwa-chan can lead Hanamaki back to where we’ll meet up.”

Hinata thinks he hears Iwaizumi sigh and Matsukawa snicker. “That sounds like a good idea,” he tells him, voice breathless and quieter than he intended. Matsukawa lobs him back his shirt, which Hinata quickly pulls over his head, careful not to agitate the tender new tattoo. Once dressed, he stands, walking towards Oikawa who waves to Kuroo with a bright smile that doesn’t quite extend to his eyes.

“I’ll be seeing you two,” Oikawa says, meeting both Kuroo and Kenma’s eyes. He looks over his shoulder to Hanamaki, Iwaizumi, and Matsukawa. “And I’ll see you three in fifteen minutes.”

With that, Oikawa tosses an arm over Hinata’s shoulders, something Hinata can admit he’s been waiting for this whole time. The weight is welcome and enough to make Hinata’s insides bubble, his cheeks breaking into a smile as Oikawa pushes open the doors and leads him back into the alley, where they stand all on their own, light flickering overhead. Oikawa drops his hold after a moment to pull his motorcycle off of the wall. He shoves a key into the ignition and the machine comes to life, a line of neon lights around the edge illuminating the otherwise dim alley.

“Take a seat here, and hold on tight. If you keep your hands and feet inside you’ll be fine,” he tells him. Hinata nods slowly, steeling himself as he swings one leg over and settles himself up against the humming engine. When Oikawa slips in front of him, Hinata can only hold his breath, tentatively wrapping his arms around Oikawa’s waist.

The second that his hold is secured, the bike surges forwards, taking off fast enough that Hinata is thrown backwards, his stomach left behind in the dust. His grip grows tighter around Oikawa as a shout of surprise escapes his lungs, body unsure what to feel as the bike leans sharply to the side as they round a corner and shoot down a street. He can feel the bare skin of Oikawa’s abdomen under his fingers, can barely hear his own thumping heart over the rev of the engine and squeal of tires. Oikawa expertly maneuvers past people and through the smallest of spaces, turning to take alleys as if he knows where each one leads. Hinata stops trying to focus on the world as it blurs by, instead pressing his cheek into Oikawa’s shoulder, shutting his eyes, and letting himself grin.

When they skid to a halt in front of the elevator, Hinata wishes it wasn’t over. Oikawa smiles as Hinata steps off and smiles at him, hands shaking as he tries to pat down the mess of hair atop his head.

“Maybe,” he says, feeling his chest swell. “Maybe we could do that again sometime.”

Oikawa grins, tongue sticking out as he licks his lips. “Sure. It’s a date.”

Hinata’s heart jumps in his throat, unable to keep down the adrenaline that makes his blood rush in a way far from unpleasant, stomach churning with nerves and something sweeter he can’t quite put his finger on. He looks back at the elevator, taking a deep breath. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells him, backing up towards the guard. Oikawa raises a hand to wave, staying put as Hinata’s ID is scanned, as Hinata steps into the elevator. The last thing Hinata sees before descending is him, leaning up against his bike, blowing a kiss towards Hinata as if he were seeing him off for a month, not a day. Hinata entire body goes light, and all he thinks as the levels whiz past is that Oikawa didn’t get to see his reaction— red face, and wide, bright smile.

—

Going to school the next day feels strange after what had just happened. The collar of his shirt rubs against the new tattoo when he moves, a constant reminder of what had happened the day before. He feels a haze follow him to school, present as he scrawls equations into his physics notebook. He works with his mind completely focused on other things, on _Oikawa,_ on his smirk and his back pressed to Hinata’s chest, thighs close and heart pounding in his ears. He finishes before the bell, and goes through the process of checking his math, catching the mistakes in form and calculation he had made.

When lunch rolls around, Hinata is first to stand, collecting his things in his bag as his peers stretch and begin to chatter. He’s standing on the rooftop in less than five minutes, the chill enough that he shudders, and the sight of Oikawa, coat pulled over his uniform, enough to make him melt.

“Oi, c’mere,” Hanamaki calls, waving him over. The others are gathered around Oikawa, who sketches something out onto a piece of paper likely torn from a notebook. Hinata moves forwards, kneeling directly across from Oikawa.

“What’d I miss?” he asks.

“Nothing. We were waiting for you,” Oikawa tells him, flicking his eyes up to stare at Hinata. He leans back, spinning around the page so that Hinata can read it. “The most useful things we got out of Takenaka was a list of dead deposits.”

“What?” Hinata asks furrowing his brow.

Oikawa points to one of the items on his list. “Look at this _Astute Economic Foundation._ Sounds fancy, right? And the _Committee for Aesthetic Transit Reform,_ or _Crest Association_ — all these things _seem_ real, but are nothing but fronts,” Oikawa explains. “Basically, the government can funnel money through them so they can spend it without having to put it through the official budget, therefore making it public what they’re investing in.”

“The closest thing to cold cash they can get,” Iwaizumi adds, crossing his arms. “Billions of it.”

Hinata gulps, his eyes widening as he leans forwards. _“Billions?”_

“Wait,” Hanamaki says, cutting him off. “Those names sound familiar.”

“Is your mom a part of any of them?” Matsukawa asks. Oikawa’s eyes glint as Hanamaki shrugs.

“That's the next step. Find out who’s in these fake organizations and what they have in common, what they’re for and against, and find the links they have.” Oikawa bites his lip, eyes scanning over the page. “Getting ahold of where the money goes from there would help, but that’ll be tricky.”

“I’d have to find their accounts, most likely,” Matsukawa says, pursing his lips. “Bank encryption will probably take awhile to crack.”

“Then we all have our tasks,” Oikawa says, smiling up towards Hinata, eyes narrowed still, as if Hinata were the puzzle that needed solving, not him.

—

That evening, when he walks home, Hinata feels the same haze cloud his mind, following as he meanders through the steel beams and shipping crates. He feels it the next day, too, and the day after. By the fourth day, he’s shaken the idea that this sensation is one born out of leftover adrenaline and growing feelings for Oikawa, because sometimes the shadows move and it’s starting to seem like he’s being followed.

Hinata stops dead in his tracks. He listens to the steady trickle of water, groans of metal, hums of voices. He does not hear footsteps, but out if the corner of his eye, he notices the shadows shift. He turns his head towards it, and stills.

“Hello?” he calls out. He’s close enough to home that he could outrun a thief, but in all likelihood it’s either his nerves or wayward kids trying to play tricks on him. He waits a moment then speaks again. “Is someone there?”

His voice wavers slightly, and there is no immediate response. Instead, his eyes barely catch movement as someone travels out of his line of sight. Dazed, Hinata spins, trying to catch sight of what’s been lingering out of view, his head spinning once before hands grab his shoulders and steady him.

“No worries Shou-chan,” Oikawa hums as Hinata’s mind begins to focus. “It’s just me.”

Hinata’s dizziness only worsens. Oikawa’s lazy smile is strained at the edges, his eyes pinched in a way that speaks to stress Hinata knows all too well. He swallows and shakes his head, insides rattling like screws in metal washers.

“Were you… following me?” Hinata asks. Oikawa’s hands still rest on his shoulders, an anchoring weight that counters a heart light enough to flutter.

Oikawa shrugs with one shoulder. “Healthy case of paranoia, hm?” he says. “I just happen to walk this way on some days.” He leans in to bring his lips to Hinata’s ear, his hands running down Hinata’s arms to rest over his hands as he lowers his voice. “Think of it as a favour— keeping you safe from the watchers.”

Hinata furrows his brows, breath hitching. Oikawa’s murmurs leave a trail shivers down his neck, the warmth of his words creeping through him despite the chill of his warning. “W-what watchers?” he whispers back.

“Nothing to worry about. It’s harmless.” Oikawa leans back, eyes drifting across Hinata’s face, no doubt taking in wide eyes and pink cheeks. He squeezes their joined hands tightly. “Why don’t I walk you home? It’s on my way, so it’s really no trouble.”

Hinata finds himself nodding, palms clammy as Oikawa’s thumb draws circles on the backs of his knuckles. He wants to ask why, if Oikawa has gone this way so many times before, he hasn’t seen him until today, but the answer lies somewhere in his own reasoning that when Oikawa doesn’t want to be seen, he becomes invisible. So, with the knowledge that this is Oikawa’s choice to make himself known, Hinata leads him on the same path back, now accompanied by the firecracker presence that is Oikawa, burning ever steady beside him, their hands intertwined. He wonders if Oikawa can sense the bundles of excitement and nerves that comes off of him like waves. When he moves to steal a glance, to stare and to admire, they catch eyes, and it’s a zero-sum-game, because Oikawa knows he wants to look, but in knowing that, Oikawa must’ve been watching. But, in the rare moments where Oikawa’s eyes leave him, Hinata watches them scan their surrounds. It’s then that the grip on his hand always seems to tighten, a reflex, a hint at strength Hinata isn’t sure he quite understands.

They stop a few feet from his home, and Oikawa has yet to make any move to ask about it, nor to poke at its size or surroundings. He simply tilts his head, as if confused why Hinata didn’t let him bring him to the door.

“My mom isn’t expecting visitors,” he explains once Oikawa’s look becomes too heavy to handle. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, suddenly aware that he is still clinging onto Oikawa. “She, uh, likes to have notice for things.”

Oikawa sighs, smiling. “Well, tell her I say hello. I’d love to meet her someday.”

Hinata nods, and slowly loosens his hold. Oikawa doesn’t step away, instead moving closer, other hand reaching out to gently brush against Hinata’s jaw. He leans down, breath caressing his skin and leaving goosebumps in his wake, and presses his lips to Hinata’s cheek. They’re soft and warm and don’t stay nearly as long as Hinata would like, his mouth falling open in surprise as Oikawa steps back to take in his expression.

“I’ll see you around, Shou-chan,” he hums, a sparkle in softened eyes reminiscent of the night they shared, sleeping next to one another in height of the storm. Hinata doesn’t breathe, watching him drop his hands and turn, tucking them into his pockets as he goes.

There’s a moment when time freezes, where Hinata simply watches the strong lines of Oikawa’s shoulders, the posture of his back, and thinks to himself about mysteries and unknowns and misunderstandings. His heart jackrabbits in his chest, like the vibration of mumbled words in the dark of the night, and the decision is made before the world even rights itself, before he even regains his senses. Oikawa turns the corner, and Hinata _runs._

Hinata is fast by nature, and is nothing if not determined. He races through puddles, water splashing up onto his ankles, and rounds the same corner that Oikawa did only to see him facing him, halfway down the alley. His mouth is spread into a smirk, eyes glittering in a way that makes Hinata falter, just for a moment, caught up in the image of Oikawa Tooru, tie tied around one arm, red jacket bright in the monochrome of metal around them. In that instant, Oikawa winks, tongue darting out to lick his lips, and he spins around before taking off.

Hinata gives chase, because what else would he do? Oikawa is quick and sure in his movements, a blur that Hinata can only just follow, weaving through the steel support beams and electricity transformers and abandoned homes. He loses him once, twice, only to find him lingering, lying in wait just out of the corner of his eye, grinning like a cat with a canary in his teeth. The laugh that escapes Hinata as he runs closer lights every nerve ending in each limb, tiny fires fueled by the retreating form of Oikawa and every teasing look he casts over his shoulder.

Oikawa disappears around a corner and Hinata skids around it, body slamming into a waiting Oikawa’s chest. His arms find purchase on Hinata’s biceps, holding him steady as a laugh of surprise rumbles through him. Hinata looks up at Oikawa, his eyes squeezed together as he shakes his head, shoulders shaking as if the idea of them racing through the level like kids is too much to be true. The sight stops Hinata’s heart as his breath hitches, dopey smile caught on his face. When Oikawa’s eyes open, they’re soft, and Hinata finds himself reflected in the glassy brown iris, emotions laid bare. Oikawa smiles, exhaling gently, and Hinata feels something inside of him _melt._

“Well then,” Oikawa hums. “I’ll lead the way.”

Hinata laughs, airy and soft, as Oikawa steps back, turning to walk a few feet away. They’re in a shadowed area, close to the water holding plant, but sheltered from the actual electrical fencing that separates the rest of the world from the private property. Oikawa kneels down, hand running along the grimy ground before he hoists up, with one hand, a sheet of thick steel up to expose the level beneath. Hinata can hardly be surprised at this point, but still finds himself staring, mouth drying. Oikawa’s arms flex through his shirt, holding up the metal sheet four inches thick and likely weighing a ton as if it were nothing more than a wooden door. Heat coils under Hinata’s skin and Oikawa just smiles.

“Are you ready?” Oikawa asks, tilting his head, that familiar teasing lilt returning as he examines the flush on Hinata’s face.

“Y-yeah,” Hinata says, stepping forwards. He ducks under Oikawa’s arm to stare down. What light creeps through exposes a fairly thick beam three feet down, slick with water and red with rust. Hinata thanks the higher powers that he changed out of his uniform and tucked it into his bag after school.

“I’ll be down right after you to help you down,” Oikawa tells him. Hinata nods, mostly to himself and grips the edge, slowly lowering his legs down until he can balance on the beam. It’s plenty wide for the both of them, and in mere seconds, Oikawa is beside him, the sheet of metal set soundlessly back in place as if it were never moved before. Hinata blinks rapidly, vision engulfed by darkness, and instinctively reaches out to cling onto Oikawa’s jacket.

“How can you see anything?” Hinata asks, eyes straining to focus on the blackness around them. Water drips onto his neck, and he shivers.

“I just… can,” Oikawa answers, voice low and quiet. “Always have been able to. I used to freak Iwa-chan out when we were younger— I’d hide in his room and make him jump.”

Hinata tries to imagine a startled Iwaizumi and fails. “How’d he react?”

“Oh, he smacked me every time. The first time he didn’t realize it was me and ended up kicking me in the nose,” Oikawa snickers. Hinata feels him shift, moving around to his left. One hand grabs his wrist in a tight hold. “It’s an eight foot drop. I can jump down and catch you, or I can hold you as I jump. Your choice.”

“Hold me,” Hinata says, embarrassingly quickly. It dawns on him that Oikawa will be able to see how red his cheeks have gotten, which only makes him blush harder.

“Of course,” Oikawa responds, and suddenly, arms hook underneath him to hold under his knees and shoulders, lifting him up off the beam and securing against Oikawa’s chest. Hinata barely has enough time to yelp in reaction before they’re falling, his stomach left behind as he presses his face into Oikawa’s shirt. With a jolt, they land, a heavy _clang_ echoing through the darkness. Hinata exhales, gripping onto Oikawa as he’s slowly set down onto his feet.

“Good?” Oikawa asks, voice materializing by his ear. Hinata’s feels warm trickle down his neck.

“You’re gonna have to lead me, I still can’t see,” Hinata tells him.

“I can change that. I’m gonna let go of you and walk away for a moment, okay?” he says.

Hinata nods, loosening his hold on Oikawa. Slowly, Oikawa backs away, his footsteps soft and accompanied by the ever present drip of water into a growing puddle. Hinata hears the groan of metal and the jingle of keys before red neon light burns through the darkness, outlining the shape of Oikawa’s motorcycle. The hum of the engine rumbles through Hinata’s chest as he steps forwards, headlights beaming straight through a narrow passage ahead of them. Oikawa wheels the bike from its hiding spot, closes the door, and looks to Hinata, skin glowing under the red light, eyes glinting as they meet Hinata’s.

“Ready for that date?” Oikawa asks, voice clear over the rev of the engine. Hinata, in a moment of bravery, moves so that their bodies brush together, biting his lip to contain his excitement.

“Always,” Hinata says, the word falling out in a breath almost inaudible. But Oikawa’s eyes gleam and he extends a hand, helping him settle onto the bike behind him. Hinata slips his hands around Oikawa’s waist, tighter, more sure than the time before. He still ends up clinging when they accelerate, but now knows what to expect when Oikawa leans to the side to turn, when he speeds up or brakes harshly to avoid their surroundings. They reach light eventually, but not long after they move lower, Oikawa taking them through another treacherous network of beams much like the one before. The pace is quick but precise, and despite every part of Hinata’s mind screaming that death is inevitable, he trusts Oikawa to keep him safe.

And so they travel lower, and lower, and lower still, the sound of waves crashing being more than a distant groan. Hinata tastes salt and counts levels— _35, 36, 37, 38_ — loses count at forty-five and stops trying to keep track near fifty. It’s not long after that the light hits Hinata, as bright as it is on the surface. They’re close to the edge now, close to the tumultuous tide and churning sea that lies right below. Hinata leans over slightly as catching glimpses of blue with white foam. The waves are enormous up close, no longer a deep blue monolith, an impermeable boundary line. The ocean _moves_ and pulls and occasionally crashes against beams, sending water up their way. Oikawa avoids the worst of it, moving away from the edge as their speed slows. He rounds around a large metal building that looks as if it was patched together multiple times in its life span, some parts rusted and others completely stainless, some sleek and others dented in odd ways. Oikawa steps off the bike, reaching over to bang his fist on the metal, forcing a panel open to show a sleek keypad, on par with any of the ones Hinata has seen on the surface. Oikawa punches in a few numbers, and the metal door swings slowly open. It’s large, chosen probably because Oikawa can drive right through and park his motorcycle inside, door slamming shut behind them. The motor turns off, and Hinata sighs, stretching out his arms as Oikawa offers him a hand off the bike.

They stand in a warehouse of sorts, not insulated, with nothing but steel between them and the waves. The ocean is near deafening here, and when Hinata looks further out, he can see that part of the warehouse floor near the edge doesn’t exist, giving way to the ocean below. He doesn’t get too close, instead turning to look at the ladder and the small loft that lives roughly ten feet up. It houses a bed, a large crate, and a small kitchenette, the latter being the only metal objects— the rest of the furniture is plastic or cloth.

“Welcome to my house,” Oikawa says, his voice almost tentative, as if uncertain if Hinata, who lives in a shipping container, will turn up his nose at it. “It isn’t very cozy, but it’s where I sleep from time to time.”

“Not always?” Hinata asks, tearing his eyes away from his surroundings to stare at Oikawa as he shrugs.

“I stay with the others when the weather gets bad. That, and Iwa-chan and his family always welcome me back.” He pauses, looking wistfully down at the water. “I still don’t know why they took me in, back when… when I first arrived.”

“Iwaizumi is pretty kind. I guess it runs in his family,” Hinata says.

Oikawa looks back at him, cracking a smile. “I guess so.” He reaches out his arm, motioning for Hinata’s bag. “Here, I can hang that up for you. There’s some food if you want any upstairs.”

Hinata passes it over to him, curiously following him up the ladder to further inspect the loft. The bed is well made, corners of the large quilt tucked under the mattress. It lays on the ground, but there are quite a few pillows, and a knife poking out from one of them, so Hinata assumes Oikawa is comfortable. Oikawa sets their bags onto the large crate and moves over to the fridge, yanking it open and ignoring the small amount of sparks it gives off as he grabs two cans from inside.

“Here, catch!” he calls out, closing the door with his foot. Hinata, in a feat of hand eye coordination, manages to grab it with one hand, earning him a raised brow from Oikawa as he smiles, bottom lip caught in his teeth. Hinata looks down at the can, eager to quench his thirst.

“Orange soda?” Hinata asks, cracking it open as Oikawa does his own. It fizzles over his hand, and Hinata is quick to slurp it up before it grows sticky on Oikawas floors.

“It’s that or canned iced coffee,” Oikawa tells him, waving his drink as he fights through laughter. “I figured you’d enjoy something sweeter.”

Hinata tries to pout, and fails at the sight of Oikawa’s grin, his shoulders missing some of the tension he’s grown so used to seeing. He takes a long drink from his can, before meeting Oikawa’s eyes again. “Thanks— for this, for bringing me here.”

Oikawa hums, moving to stand closer to him. “I promised you a date,” he reminds him.

Hinata blushes, casting his gaze out towards the ocean. “I… didn’t think you were serious,” he admits.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Oikawa asks, and Hinata can _feel_ the weight of his eyes, heavy and questioning. “You’re the single most brightest star in a city where all you can see are satellites.”

Hinata looks back at Oikawa, feeling his cheeks darken further, his pulse pick up. “Y-you’ve never seen a star. Neither of us have.”

“I’ve seen you,” Oikawa shoots back, and his eyes are wide and bearing no sign of the jest, of the game. “I think that’s enough.”

Hinata doesn't know what to say in response to that. Instead, he looks back out to the gap in the warehouse floor, to the waves that flow and ebb and crest. Everything is louder here, from his breath to his heartbeat to his thoughts racing, reminding that Oikawa’s attention is something precious, and _god_ having all of that attention trained on him is something Hinata isn’t sure he’ll ever be used to. Metal groans and the ocean surges and he finds himself calmed by the sound— chaos, with rhythm.

“It’s so… different, up close,” Hinata finds himself saying. “The water, I mean.”

“It helps me sleep,” Oikawa tells him, sipping on his coffee. Hinata wonders, eyes trailing on the long fingers wrapped around the can, if Oikawa’s lips taste bitter. “I can never sleep in silence.” His eyes follow Hinata’s gaze to his fingers, and before he can look away, he’s extended his free hand to Hinata, reaching down to lace their fingers together. “That thunderstorm was the best rest of my life, but I think that’s because I was sleeping next to you.”

Hinata can’t help but sputter, unconsciously holding tighter onto Oikawa’s hand. “Really? I— you— _what?”_

“I’m being completely honest. No nightmares, whatsoever,” Oikawa assures him, smiling. He presses closer, Hinata’s shoulder pressing into his arm as they look out at the water. Hinata continues to stare, fluster making way for concern.

“Do you get them often? Nightmares?” he asks, voice quiet.

Oikawa purses his lips, taking a moment before answering. “Nightmares, vivid dreams— they’re fine because they’re fake, and I know that,” he explains. “But sometimes… things come back to me at night. Those are harder to bear.”

“Memories?” Hinata asks quietly.

“They’re… disconnected. Strange. But they’re… too real to be dreams. I can feel when they start and when they end. Small things have always been there, but ever since the blood tests at the physical exams… things have been slipping through.” He squeezes Hinata’s hand tighter. “I… thank you, Shouyou.”

Hinata furrows his brow in confusion, tilting his head. “For what?”

“For everything. For being… you,” he tells him. Slowly, he raises their hands, bringing Hinata’s knuckles closer so that he can lean forwards and brush his lips across them. “It’s all I can ask.”

And Hinata’s heart stops, because there’s something so uniquely human in the depths of Oikawa’s brown eyes, something that tugs on the deepest parts of him and forces him to fall deeper. Because this part of Oikawa is different still from what he saw that stormy night, because here, _Oikawa_ is the one vulnerable, not him. Yet there is a shared understanding, of trust and bonds and something _more_ that sparks the ever burning flame inside of Hinata and forces it to burn brighter, as if just by speaking, Oikawa doused it in gasoline.

And more than anything, Hinata wants to feel this weight of Oikawa’s hand in his, wants to see this side and every side of him knowing that Oikawa trusts him enough to show it. He doesn’t want to solve Oikawa’s mystery— he wants to be a part of it, to understand it, to wrap his head around exactly what turns the corners of Oikawa’s lips up into a smile and what makes his heart beat faster. He wants to make it happen. He wants to be closer still.

Later that night, when they’re back on Oikawa’s motorcycle and the light has faded from the sky, Hinata finds his arms snaking closer around Oikawa’s waist, one hand moving to rest across his chest and over his heart. He presses his cheek into Oikawa’s shoulder, pulls him into the embrace, smelling salt and leather— comforting scents, _Oikawa’s_ scents. And despite the wind that whips through both of their hair, Hinata feels nothing but warm.


	5. revel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!!!! :3c this was written ages ago but since we only post chapters once the next one is done it took awhile for this to get out!!! i hope you guys enjoy this... a few of these scenes were written way back when this au was first made!!! SO WITHOUT FURTHER ADO... here it is....

It’s a fairly normal Sunday morning, all things considered. Natsu talks a mile a minute about her and her friend’s antics from the day before, Hinata sitting at her side scrawling out a third page of physics homework onto scrap paper, his mother taking down the laundry hung in odd places in a vain hope that it’ll dry nicely, even if it hasn’t. The radio crackles— it’s been playing the same loop of twenty-five songs since the day before yesterday— and the scent of linens wafts strongly through the air as Hinata runs through the calculations yet again. He’s almost run out of paper in his notebook, an issue that’s far less daunting now that he has access to the resources of the upper levels. If it were a year ago, he’d be stuck combing through the market, hoping that something of use would be there. It’s all funny, at least to him, because most of his classmates don’t _use_ paper, instead writing onto tablets or typing into computers, content not to deal with the annoyance of shuffling books around on a desk in effort to make everything fit.

So, a normal Sunday. Hinata had no reason to suspect his mother’s small smile, or the way she moves with a little more spring in here step than what’s warranted for doing laundry. At the end of it all, she sits down in the seat opposing Hinata and Natsu, her eyes crinkled at the corners as she pushes the folded basket of laundry out of the way.

“Shouyou,” Ayame says, fingertips drumming on the edge of the table. “I have a surprise for you.”

Hinata sets down his pencil, looking up from his work. “What is it?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” she prefaces. “Natsu is getting a lot bigger—”

“I sure am!” Natsu interjects, raising both her hands in excitement. “I’m gonna be _so_ big.”

Ayame stifles fond laughter as she nods. “You will honey. And your brother has grown too,” she explains. “So I thought it’s probably time for Hinata to get a bed, all to himself.”

Hinata’s grins in disbelief shaking his head. “Mom, you don’t have to, we don’t have the space.”

“I know, I know,” she says, still smiling. “That’s why I’ve been saving up. I bought half of a steel container like this one— stainless, too. I’ve got a few people from work coming over to help weld it and attach a door.”

Hinata isn’t sure how he could be more amazed, eyes wide like saucers and smile so wide it hurts. His mother looks at him with such pride in her eyes that his heart aches, and in a split second he’s surged forwards to tackle her into a hug, tripping over the laundry and knocking his textbook to the ground in the process. His mother squeaks in surprise, wrapping her arms around him, giggling when Natsu joins in on the hug, worming her way between them.

And their kitchen is filled with the same light feeling that comes with music on the radio and freshly laundered sheets, coupled with the laughter of the Hinata family that echoes throughout their home. When his mother's coworkers arrive, a forklift rumbling as it carries their new extension, Hinata can only be grateful for every ounce of hard work his mother has poured into making this life for them. That night, when he lies on his own bed for the first time in years, he finds it strangely empty. He stretches out his toes to touch the wall and stares out through the open door into the kitchen. This newfound freedom does not feel strange, but the missing sound of another person’s breathing is.

—

It’s raining the next day at school, leaving the Hinata and his friends to convene in the quiet stairwell Hanamaki and Matsukawa know well. They’re sitting on different levels of the stairs, with Hinata perched at the top landing, leaning up against the wall. He’s chosen to ignore Hanamaki’s taunts at finally being taller than them in favour of slowly, quietly stacking garbage on his head. It doesn’t quite work— the paper bag that held his lunch slipping off before Hanamaki can even notice it— but it earns him a few laughs.

“Anybody got anything new?” Matsukawa asks, tossing a grape up into the air and catching it in his mouth.

Hinata lights up. “I got my own room! It’s like a mini extension to the house and everything,” he tells him. “I still have to decorate it, but I’m not sure with what yet.”

“Really?” Oikawa asks. He’s at the bottom, looking up at Hinata with his brows raised. “Does it have a door?”

Iwaizumi reaches down and smacks Oikawa across the back of the head. “Stop being gross,” he grumbles, shooting an apologetic look to Hinata, who is already blushing, assuming the worst implications.

“It— it does have a door,” he answers, retaining some of his dignity. “And a window.” He sighs, chewing on his lip. “I was kind of busy with that this weekend. I didn’t get to look up anything about… _y’know.”_

“Same here,” Hanamaki groans, leaning back into Matsukawa’s chest. “I need to use public computers, lest mother comes up with some weird deluded reason for me being interested in _government.”_

“More deluded than the actual reason?” Iwaizumi asks. Hanamaki simply shrugs.

“What about you?” Matsukawa asks, looking down to Oikawa. “What have you been up to?”

Oikawa flashes a grin, eyes curving into crescents. “Nothing you all need to worry about. You do your job, I do mine, and everything will work out.”

Hinata squints slightly. He can notice the stress lines under Oikawa’s eyes, the way his lips twitch slightly as he holds the smile— all small, excusable things, and all things that don’t exist when Oikawa smiles genuinely. In a moment of pride, Hinata applauds himself for noticing Oikawa’s lie, but stays quiet. There’s still an uncertainty between them all, one that only Iwaizumi seems to understand. His words come back to Hinata from when they first met, tales of a _scrappy friend,_ leaving Hinata to push down the worry that bubbles up at the idea of Oikawa using the gun he had tucked into his jacket. Hinata _knows_ Oikawa is capable, if not because of the rumours Kuroo shared, then because of the strength he displayed on their _date._

The conflicting sensation of a fluttering heart and sinking stomach is one Hinata is sure he will feel again. Oikawa’s gaze rests on him until the bell rings, and when Hinata turns to ask him what he’s up to that night, he’s already vanished.

—

Hinata lies, restless, staring at the window beside his bed. The air that drifts through is cold, and he’s yet to find a space heater or accumulate enough blankets to combat the chill that permeates the air. Slowly, he raises his fingertips and brushes them along the sill. The sharp metal where the window was cut has been dulled down, but still pulls strongly against his skin as his eyes drift open and close.

He wants to sleep, but where rest should be, he only finds longing. It submerges his heart and leaves him to lie prone, curled up in an empty bed with his eyes closed and mind fighting against the pull of sleep. It isn’t the first time this kind of anticipation has settled into his bones, but it still leaves him sluggish in the body and hyperactive in the mind, as if his hands can only twitch in response to the fleeting wishes of a mind running on fumes.

Of course, it always comes back to Oikawa. As he dreams with a mind still awake, he remembers the weight of Oikawa’s hand in his own. He remembers the warmth radiating under Hinata’s hands when he embraced Oikawa on that ride home, how, when he breathed, his body would expand to grow closer to Hinata’s. The memory of those words and that gaze and his breath close to his ear soothes him, enough so that he can lie on his back without tossing or turning. If thinking of Oikawa is how he finds sleep, then so be it.

He can’t be sure how much time passes, spent with brown eyes and a thousand different smiles on his mind— seconds, minutes, hours. All Hinata can be sure of is that he’s drawn from this peace by the pitched scrape of metal against metal, grating against his ears. Hinata makes a noise halfway between a groan and a whine, content to press his head into his pillow until the bed underneath him dips.

Hinata’s eyes snap open, the world dark and in half focus as he pushes himself up onto his elbows, rubbing his eyes. And sitting at his feet, hunched over in the near pitch black darkness of Hinata’s room, is Oikawa himself, breathing clear but body trembling, evident in how the hand not clutching his abdomen reaches out to feel for Hinata’s hand and fails.

“Oikawa?” Hinata whispers, voice raggard from sleep. He sits up fully and grabs his hand, holding it tightly between them. “What’s wrong? Why are you—”

Oikawa hums, strained, bringing his other hand away from his stomach. In the low light cast by a nightlight in the corner of the room, Hinata notices something dark shine on the tips of his fingers. “I… may have overdone it,” he murmurs, voice somehow clear in this strange, dissonant state. His eyes stay trained on Hinata, even as Hinata’s eyes drift down to take in the dark stain on his shirt and, _oh,_ he realizes, eyes widening as they meet Oikawa’s, _it’s blood._ “I needed y—“ He inhales sharply. “Your place is closer than mine.”

“You’re hurt, oh, _crap,_ how did you— where—” Hinata worries, voice still a rough whisper as he tentatively begins to reach towards Oikawa’s shirt. “I need to— there’s a first aid kit in the kitchen.”

Oikawa nods slowly as if in a daze. Hinata moves from his bed, quietly setting his feet down onto the cold floor as he makes a silent prayer that nothing with creak. His new door is freshly oiled and glides without issue, and though the kitchen is dark, he remembers where the red box is kept— under the sink, behind the soap. Not knocking into anything is harder when his body is chock full of adrenaline, when he gives into the compulsion to look back and stare at Oikawa’s silhouette bleeding onto his bed. Eventually he makes it back, still walking on the tips of his toes, and closes the door behind him, too preoccupied to flinch at the noise it makes when it hits the frame. He’s already scurried back onto the bed, the first aid kit resting on his knees as he pries it open.

“I— can I see it?” Hinata asks, looking up from the red stain to Oikawa’s eyes. Oikawa nods, slowly taking off his jacket, nose wrinkling as he does so. The shirt comes next, peeled off to expose all of the old scars and new scrapes. There’s bruises in too many places but the slash across his abdomen is the worst of the all, blood leaking from a wound not yet closed, collecting at the hem of his jeans. Hinata bites his lip and rifles through the kit, pulling out a tiny flashlight. “Can you hold this so I can see?” he asks. Oikawa’s strained expression breaks with a tiny, placeting smile as he takes the flashlight and clicks it on, shining bright light onto the gash.

It’s slow work that starts with dabbing disinfectant onto the open cut, leaving Oikawa hissing through his teeth, collecting cotton swaps that turn from white to red in moments before being tossed onto the ground. Hinata quickly unravels the gauze, tearing off a thick piece with his teeth and placing it over the wound. All the while, the light from the flashlight Oikawa holds sways and shakes, not enough to impede the process of tying a bandage to secure the gauze but enough to make Hinata worry further. Oikawa’s bones seem closer now, even with all of the hard lines of muscle that make up his slender body. It’s like his skeleton is reaching forwards, pushing against the seams as he pulls back the layers that hide it.

Hinata doesn’t have water to wipe away the dried blood on his hands and stomach, resorting to rubbing it gently with a cloth until it flakes off or is soaked up. What red stains the skin is left alone for now as Hinata moves to inspect the rest of Oikawa’s body. Beyond bruises, there’s nothing serious left besides the exhaustion so evident in Oikawa’s eyes, but Hinata fusses, fearful he’s missed the worst injury of them all.

Oikawa clicks off the flashlight, dropping it onto the bed. It bounces once before Hinata grabs it, haphazardly pushing things back into the first aid kit and tossing it onto the ground. It clatters, and neither he nor Oikawa flinch. The noise is jarring but is no quieter than the blood rushing in Hinata’s ears as he settles in front of a bandaged and shirtless and wounded Oikawa, whose eyes haven’t left him since this started. The faint glow of the nightlight casts shadows with softer edges, ones that make Oikawa’s eyes seem heavy.

Hinata bites his lip. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asks, reaching forwards to touch his shoulder. “Does it hurt if I touch anywhere?”

He’s mostly distracted from the reality of touching Oikawa's bare skin by the sobering vulnerability of his person— injured, bleeding, and shaking, a far cry from the aloof Oikawa he’s grown to know. Oikawa hums as Hinata fusses, reaching to inspect Oikawa’s upper arm only for his wrist to be caught by Oikawa’s hand. Hinata freezes in time and space, resigned to watch as Oikawa gently guides his hand closer and ducks down, pressing his cheek into Hinata's palm not unlike a stray cat desperate for attention. He turns so that his nose and lips brush against his skin, breath a light breeze as he so gently kisses Hinata’s hand, looking up at Hinata through lashes that ever so slightly tickle Hinata's fingers.

And Hinata's heart clenches, because Oikawa is looking at him as if he can see all the way through him, waiting patiently for _something,_ for _more._ Hinata wasn’t aware that Oikawa was capable of making an expression of such unguarded adoration, can’t imagine that it could be directed at him. It’s highlighted by the undercurrent of vulnerability Oikawa shows simply by not moving, by allowing Hinata to hold his cheek in his hand and brush his thumb against his face. Oikawa’s eyes flutter shut and Hinata is sure a thousand words have become lodged in his throat and his body is a steady fire that smolders under his skin.

“Oikawa,” Hinata says, words no more than a gentle breath of something bigger than infatuation. “What happened?” Oikawa doesn’t open his eyes as he hums, leaning further into Hinata’s hand. Hinata frowns at his silence, scooching closer so that their foreheads are inches apart. “Oikawa, _please.”_

Oikawa sighs, soft and gentle against Hinata’s hand, not yet opening his eyes. “Takenaka gave me the contact of an underground syndicate the government has ties to. In exchange for doing their dirty work, I get a chance to know how the government moves in the shadow,” he reveals.

“That’s dangerous,” Hinata murmurs, and it feels stupid because of course it is, Oikawa came bleeding into his bed. “Not just this, but if the government finds out—“

“The syndicate will only give me so much— scraps, basically. But I’m useful and the government will drop them the second _they_ stop becoming useful, so I’m safe,” he explains. “In theory.”

Hinata wants to argue, wants to tell him he doesn’t have to become a weapon to understand his past, but he’d be lying and Oikawa would only fall back. Oikawa’s hand, the one not caressing his wrist, rests on Hinata’s thigh, rubbing slow circles through the threadbare material of Hinata's pajama pants.  

So Hinata doesn’t beg him to stop, as much as watching him hurt hurts him in turn. “Don’t push yourself to this all the time,” he says instead, and Oikawa makes a noncommittal noise that vibrates through Hinata's hand. He inhales. “If not for yourself or the others, then… for me.”

Oikawa slowly opens his eyes, scanning Hinata’s face. He can feel the sharp intake of air against his palm as Oikawa nods, leaning further into Hinata’s hand, rising up onto his knees so that he’s taller than Hinata once more. He’s moving with a kind of restraint that lacks his usual grace, instead moving as if he were slowed by weights on his arms and molasses combined. But it’s still fast enough that Hinata is swept away by the hand slipping off of his wrist and snaking up his arm to touch his shoulder, his other moving to Hinata’s waist, pushing up his shirt to touch cool hands to warm skin in a way that sends a jolt through Hinata. And Hinata’s hand stays hovering in place as Oikawa pushes him backwards, Hinata's back hitting the mattress with a soft _fwoomp_ noise, arms encasing him in a warmth only found in another person. The springs creak in earnest and Hinata’s entire chest swells because Oikawa’s weight is pressed up against his _everything._ Slowly, Oikawa props himself up, elbows resting beside Hinata's head.

Oikawa’s eyes are lidded, dark, and envelop Hinata like tea on a cold day— from the inside out. He feels his breath, caught in his chest, unable to move, arms bent at the elbow and resting by his head, legs tangled with Oikawa’s. And at this distance, Oikawa must see how Hinata’s cheeks grow darker, must _hear_ his heart pounding, just as Hinata can feel Oikawa’s unsteady breaths against his lips, just as Hinata can smell iron and cotton on his skin.

“Shou-chan,” Oikawa murmurs. “You worry too much.”

Hinata’s breath filters through his lips, in unconscious time with the rise and fall of Oikawa’s chest pressing into his. “I think you give me plenty of reason to worry,” he whispers back, breath caught in his throat at their proximity. His gaze is caught in between Oikawa’s eyes and his lips, unsure of exactly where to focus when both are so _close._

“As long as you’re safe,” Oikawa tells him, and there’s a subtle, caring intensity to his words. He leans and presses his forehead to Hinata’s, their noses brushing and lips a breath away, closer than ever before— yet Hinata wants closer still. “As long as you’re happy.”

Hinata can’t help but let his eyes flutter closed the second that Oikawa leans closer, because everything is coming to a precipice, the depth of Oikawa’s genuinity shown in how much he cares. And when chapped lips brush against his cheek, Hinata heaves an exhale, only for his body to spark with electricity as Oikawa tucks his face into the crook between Hinata's neck and shoulder, every nerve flashing as he mumbles something against his skin. Hinata wants so desperately to ask what he said, but wants even more not to break this moment he is so sure is a dream. Whether by instinct or autonomy, Hinata lifts one arm to rest on Oikawa’s bare broad and scarred shoulder, the other bending just enough to card his fingers through Oikawa’s hair.

 _Soft,_ Hinata thinks, massaging Oikawa's scalp. Oikawa sighs heavy into his neck, warmth radiating down his collarbone. The fading adrenaline gives way to the reality of sleep deprivation and Hinata fights to stay awake, to watch how Oikawa subtly curls around him, to replay the moment of _almost_ that dangles between them. But Hinata’s eyes grow heavy, and sleep becomes a thing he gives into without realizing, because he is no longer alone.

And for the first time in many nights, neither is Oikawa.

—

The obnoxious blaring of Hinata’s alarm startles him awake. With a groan, he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, clinging onto the throes of sleep that fade with every passing second. He wrenches one arm from underneath the covers and stretches it out, attempting to reach over towards the makeshift nightstand fashioned out of a milkcrate that holds his alarm clock. He’s stopped from doing so, however, by the arm looped around his waist. As Hinata’s wits come back to him, his cheeks darken, the beeping of the alarm secondary to the sensation of Oikawa’s chest pressing up against his back, lips at the nape of his neck, hand splayed out on his bare hip. He gulps, and, carefully, as not to aggravate his injuries, stretches his fingers out further, Oikawa’s iron hold not allowing him to slip away. After a minute or so of struggling, he manages to slam his hand on the off switch, engulfing the room in silence once more.

Hinata breathes a sigh of relief, arm hanging slack off the bed. Oikawa has yet to move or speak, and he’d be gambling if he guessed whether or not he was awake. With their legs entwined and Oikawa’s exhales tickling the hairs on the back of his neck, Hinata isn’t sure he wants to break free, content to stay in Oikawa’s arms a little longer. His embrace is warm, leaving Hinata’s stomach to flutter with a feeling as sweet as candy, one that leaves his skin tingling even if his chest churns like the ocean’s waves. With the weight of Oikawa at his back, Hinata can feel himself tempted to slip into sleep— a dangerous game when they both need to be at school.

“Oikawa,” Hinata mumbles, wriggling in his hold. “We gotta get ready.” Oikawa presses his face into Hinata’s shoulder, his arms tightening around Hinata and pulling him closer as he hums. The noise rumbles through Hinata and nearly stops his heart, but he clears his throat and continues, albeit shakily. “Y-you gotta let go so we can make it to school on time.” Oikawa says something that’s muffled against Hinata’s shoulder, lips brushing against his skin as he talks. “W-what?”

“Good morning,” Oikawa rasps, voice heavy in the morning hour. “Won’t you let me enjoy this a little longer?”

Hinata’s breath hitches, Oikawa’s voice sending a shiver down the side of his neck. “O-oh,” he stammers, body still despite how it yearns to push back against him. “Okay. But I can’t be late.”

Oikawa sighs, heavy and content, nuzzling his nose into Hinata’s neck. “You won’t be.”

They lie like that for a while, Oikawa’s fingers drawing lazy patterns on Hinata’s stomach, subtly pushing up his shirt as he moves. The ebbing sensations of being held runs through him in small bursts, Hinata’s mind summoning up the strange picture that is Oikawa the criminal holding Hinata with a kind of gentle touch he’s sure his past self wouldn’t believe existed. Slowly, Hinata’s hand creeps down to brush atop Oikawa’s on his stomach, and _oh_ is the touch intimate enough that his entire body must be red. Hinata links their fingers together, marvelling at how small his hand is compared to Oikawa’s, revelling in the rush he gets when Oikawa squeezes his palm.

It’s too soon that Oikawa untangles his arm from around Hinata, sighing heavily as he gives him the space to sit up and stretch his arms. Body warm and light, Hinata looks over his shoulder and down at Oikawa, who still lies in the bed. The blanket lies at his hips, leaving his chest exposed, muscles shifting as he props himself up on one elbow. He moves tentatively, with all the signs of a body still aching. Hinata scans his face for any signs of discomfort and only finds a wrinkled nose. His eyes scan lower, following the long, deep scar down his chest, past his belly button and towards the bandage on his torso. There’s a slight stain where the blood had seeped through, but it otherwise looks dry. Hinata licks his lips and tears his eyes away, coughing.

“My mom should be up soon,” he whispers. “Keep quiet.”

Oikawa nods soundlessly, pushing himself up. He reaches for the first aid kit on the floor and begins to change his bandage with ease, hands steady unlike the night before. Hinata steals glances out of the side of his eyes at deft fingers untying knots and applying pressure, his own hands hovering over the open drawer that houses his uniform. “O-Oikawa?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“You don’t have a uniform,” he states, furrowing his brow, not yet looking towards Oikawa, though he feels the weight of his gaze. “Or a shirt that isn’t ruined.”

“I’ll just wear my jacket— I’ve got a spare uniform at school,” he tells Hinata. “You should get dressed before you’re late.”

Hinata looks towards him, holding his tongue from saying _because of you_. In the end, he knows Oikawa knows he enjoyed every second spent lying with him, and Oikawa would hang that over his head with a smug expression lest he ever challenge. With a huff, Hinata nods, turning so that his back faces Oikawa as he pulls off his shirt and tosses it on top of the alarm clock. The eyes burning onto his back leave him flushed, turning back to see Oikawa lounging on his bed, eyes lidded and trained his way. Hinata gulps, teeth worrying his bottom lip. “Don’t look,” he mumbles, hands resting on the waistband of his sleep pants.

Oikawa dutifully shuts his eyes, humming. Hinata squints to make sure he isn’t peeking before quickly stripping off the rest of his clothes, trying not to combust from the fact that he’s standing _naked_ in his bedroom with _Oikawa_ on his bed after just _sleeping_ with him. He pulls on underwear and his uniform trousers, slips on his button down and begins to wrangle the buttons closed, sighing now that his body has been covered once more. He’s not _embarrassed,_ per se, but he and Oikawa have shared enough intimacy for the morning. Even if he _wants_ Oikawa to see him—

Hinata nearly stops breathing, shaking the thought out of his mind. _Oikawa is right there,_ he reminds himself, tucking in his button down.

“Y-you can look now,” he says, still keeping his voice quiet. He turns around in time to watch Oikawa open his eyes, blinking slightly as he continues to watch Hinata finish with the buttons and move onto tying his tie. It’s gotten colder outside, enough so to warrant wearing both his vest and his blazer, so he pulls the pieces out from the drawer and begins to put them on as Oikawa stands, bending over to pick his leather jacket off the floor.

Hinata stares, eyes transfixed on Oikawa’s abs as he slips both arms through the jacket and flips it up onto his shoulders. He has seen firsthand how strong he is, what those muscles can do, and the thought makes the image even more overwhelming than it already is. Oikawa’s eyes flick up to meet Hinata’s, and he grins. “See something you like? You had all night to ogle, Shou-chan.”

“I— I was asleep,” Hinata retorts, voice hitched and high-pitched, ears burning as he sharply looks away to grab his bag and stuff his notebooks back into it. Oikawa laughs lightly, smile wide as he zips up his jacket.

The voice of his mother breaks through the tension. “Shouyou!” she calls. “You’re going to be late!”

“Late! Late!” Natsu sings, her footsteps bounding towards his door. Hinata’s eyes widen, and he whips his head around to Oikawa only to be met with empty space, his door sliding open with a _bang_ as Natsu parades into his room. “C’mon sleepyhead!”

Hinata blinks, scanning the room before his eyes land on the window. He relaxes with a loud sigh, and looks back over to his sister. “Did mom make you breakfast?”

“She made us _all_ breakfast,” Natsu tells him, grabbing his wrist and tugging him forwards. “Come get food!”

Hinata stiffles his laughter, slinging his bag onto his shoulder as he follows Natsu and closes the door behind him. His mother hands him his lunch, which he tucks into his bag, and shoots him a glance that falls short of being stern due to the roundness of her cheeks and slight smile. “Just because you have your own room doesn't mean you can sleep in,” she warns him, pointing his way with a dishcloth in hand. “Otherwise, I’ll send Natsu in every morning to get you up.”

Hinata doesn’t have a chance to respond. A playful rap on the door has his pulse soaring, his mother quirking her brow before walking closer. “Who is it?” she calls out.

“Ah, I’m a friend of Shou-chan’s from school,” Oikawa says through the door, voice bright. “I’m here to walk him to school.”

Ayame freezes for a split second in surprise before yanking the door open, grinning as she ushers Oikawa in. “Come in, come in! Shouyou, you didn’t say you had a friend coming to pick you up! I should've cleaned or—”

“It’s a surprise to me too,” Hinata tells her, looking past her as Oikawa grins his way. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, his hair somehow wrangled from the messy bedhead Hinata saw a few minutes ago into something presentable, something that makes his mother’s cheeks flush as she holds back Natsu from tackling Oikawa’s legs.

“What’s your name? Hey, Shouyou, what’s his name?” she asks, yanking on their mother’s arm.

“I’m Oikawa Tooru,” Oikawa says, holding out his hand for her to shake. “It’s nice to meet you— Natsu, right?”

Natsu stares in an obvious daze for a few moments, mouth hanging open, eyes wide. She shakes Oikawa’s hand with all of the vigour of a five year old before turning to whisper to Hinata. “Your friend is pretty.”

Hinata’s ears start to burn again, and he clears his throat. Oikawa is biting his lip to hold back laughter, clearly amused with Hinata’s attempt to shush his sister and hide his blush from both Oikawa and his mother.

“I think it’s time for us to go!” Hinata exclaims, standing up straight and walking towards Oikawa.

“Bye-bye, pretty friend!” Natsu shouts, waving her arms sporadically. Hinata tries not to self destruct and ducks out of his house, grabbing the hem of Oikawa’s sleeve to tug him along.

“Bye-bye, Natsu-chan, Miss Hinata!” Oikawa calls back, charm oozing from his voice, smile flashing white teeth. Hinata can’t even find the strength to face him until they’re ten paces away from his house, cheeks still tinted pink but no longer burning to the same extent. Oikawa tilts his head. “What’re you so shy for?” he asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“N-nothing!” Hinata replies, the response fast and tone high pitched. Oikawa raises a brow and proceeds to chuckle, twisting his wrist so that he can break the hold Hinata has on his sleeve in favour of sliding his arm around his shoulder. At this point, Hinata can’t even be bothered to be embarrassed at how little time it takes for him to relax, enjoying the familiar weight around him.

“I swear, the slightest thing makes you blush,” Oikawa muses. “I used to wonder sometimes how far it went, until I saw you after you got your tattoo. Now I wonder _a lot._ ”

Hinata stares down at the ground, avoiding both a puddle and Oikawa’s eyes. He laughs warmly beside him, other hand reaching over to brush against an ear burning feverish. Hinata can only shiver, the difference in temperature both shocking and soothing at the same time, like icing sore muscles or thawing cold bones. He lifts his gaze up once more, staring at Oikawa as he tucks a strand behind Hinata’s ear and drops his hand.

“How are you feeling?” Hinata asks, watching the hand that falls. In the light of day, the bruises on his knuckles are prominent, a dull purple that yellows towards the edges. Oikawa hums.

“I heal fast when I take care of injuries. There’s no worry,” Oikawa assures him with a smile. “I’m lucky I had you to patch me up, or I’d be bleeding the rest of the night.”

Hinata frowns. “You have to bandage yourself still,” he says, staring Oikawa down. “The wounds will still bleed.”

“Ah, but they’ll stop eventually,” Oikawa says, still smiling despite Hinata’s pout. He tilts his head. “Of course, it won’t be like that with you as my expert nursemaid, now will it?”

Hinata’s reply gets caught in his throat, a strangled noise escaping as he nods. Oikawa pulls him tighter and leans to rest his head atop Hinata’s, the position somewhat awkward as they walk. He’s reminded of last night, of Oikawa’s face pressed to his neck, of the moments before when his lips _almost_ hovered above his own. He’s caught in that almost as they walk, in a daze not broken by the groans of factory workers trudging to and from work or the chill in the air. Oikawa keeps him warm in the cold, steady in the bustle, and grounded as he approaches a place designed to send him up towards the surface. It’s then that it dawns on him that Oikawa can’t go any farther, at least not here, at least not with him, at a legal entry point. He reluctantly detangles his arm and steps away, looking down at Hinata a few steps from the elevator.

“See you soon, Shou-chan,” Oikawa tells him, eyes lidded. Hinata nods, stepping back and fishing out his identification to hand to the guard. When he’s standing in the metal cage of the elevator, he stares out at Oikawa through the bars, and watches him tug the wrapper off of a lolly, and lick a stripe up the side. He’s gone in a flash, before Hinata can blush and before the elevator even starts to move.

—

Hinata has been on Oikawa’s mind ever since the very first moment he laid his eyes on him. That doesn't change after the night they spent in his bed— Oikawa writes his tests while remembering the glow of Hinata's blush in the shadows of twilight and the gentle brush of his fingertips over the bruises that litter his skin. He was restless until lunch, when his nerves were sated by the presence of Hinata once more, and by that time, the purple bruises had already faded to brown. He heals quick— they will be yellow by next morning and gone by the time his head hits the pillow the following day. But now Hinata has left to return home thirty-three levels below and Oikawa is left staring up at the sky, in his spare uniform with his leather jacket thrown over top, aware of how acutely he smells of Hinata— of moth balls and soap and warm laundry. It hits him deep in the pit of his stomach, like a paperweight had dropped through his heart to settle in his gut. The haze of smog doesn’t burn his eyes like it does the people around him, and he stares wide eyed through it in shock, because—

 _Oh_.

Because _of course._

Oikawa turns abruptly and heads away from the familiar passage to the levels below, instead venturing away from the city’s core. Its flash and flair lingers as he moves steadily through the shadows, clinging on to him in the form of laughter and bright lights and buildings that tower higher than he can see, with glass windows and fine eateries and people walking by with cameras following. The cameras follow whether there is a person behind it or not, a fact Oikawa has known since he knew his own name. He can hardly think to duck out of their line of sight as he pushes past luxury cars and grandiose theatres and ventures out towards the suburbs, the perfect houses in perfect rows. He pushes down the burning fear that amounts to nothing but bile as he counts the streets, knowing that when the houses begin to look less than perfect, that when the cliff-like edge of the city is visible, he will find Iwaizumi’s home.

There’s no use in knocking. He pushes open the unlocked door and it rattles in its hinges, alerting Iwaizumi, who sits cross legged on the couch with his textbook balanced on his lap, of his arrival. He looks up and slams the book closed, furrowing his brow in obvious confusion.

“Oikawa, what the _fuck?”_ he nearly shouts, motioning to the door. Oikawa doesn’t even look back to look at the broken handle.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Oikawa tells him, letting the door fall shut. He’ll replace the handle after. Swallowing the knot in his throat, Oikawa steps into the tiny living space and drops his bag onto the floor.

“Shit,” Iwaizumi curses, tossing his textbook aside. “You can’t do what?”

“Shouyou— I think I— I feel—” Oikawa inhales sharply, collecting himself as he squeezes his eyes close. “I _need_ him close, I want to take care of him and see him glow by my side and I want to— to— I want to _be_ with him.”

Iwaizumi looks at him blankly. “No shit,” he says. “Oikawa, this is the _third time_ you’ve barged in here just to gush about your, in your words, _interest_ in Hinata.”

“But it’s not just— just _that._ I don’t want to throw him aside and keep him at arms length and I don’t want to use him like— like some kind of _thing,”_ Oikawa explains, stressing his words and he bends over and fists his hands.

“You’re in love with him,” Iwaizumi says, with no amount of surprise.

“I _can’t_ love him,” Oikawa hisses. “I can’t give him the normalcy he deserves because I am a _weapon_ and a _wanted criminal._ Love is a liability to the both of us. Every moment he spends with me is another target on his back, and there’s going to be a time where I’m not there and someone else is, and it’s going to end with a bullet.”

“You’re forgetting something important here, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says. _“We’re all_ criminals now, romantic feelings or not. Hinata joined all this because he wanted to. Hell, _I_ was in this the moment I found you in that hospital gown lying in a pool of your own blood. He won’t run away just because you won’t let him in, because one, you already tried and that didn’t work, and two, you already _have_ let him in.”

Oikawa stares at Iwaizumi, his anger simmering under his skin. He can feel the pinpricks of tears in his eyes that he fights off out of sheer will and pride, knows that Iwaizumi senses it, knows that Iwaizumi is right and sees through him. They hold gazes and though Oikawa doesn’t blink, he breaks the staring contest to stare at the white wall. “He’s going to get hurt.”

“You won’t let that happen,” Iwaizumi shoots back, resolve firm. “I know you.”

“But if I’m not there—”

“That’s not what’s really bothering you,” Iwaizumi interrupts. Oikawa curses, because unbeknownst to them both, he’s called Oikawa’s bluff, shone a light on shadowed corners of his heart he tries so hard to cover. Fear settles itself into Oikawa’s bones and he _loathes_ it, crumpling down to sit on the plush carpet and stare at his hands. His heart thumps wildly, yet each breath is smooth— in, and out. In, and out.

“I’m afraid of being in love with him,” Oikawa admits, the smile that ghosts his lips not light, but jaded. “I’m afraid, because I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“No one does,” Iwaizumi tells him, and he moves off of the couch to kneel beside Oikawa. “You need to trust that you will when the time comes.”

Oikawa pictures Hinata once more, eyes fluttering shut, their foreheads touching, his pulse hammering, their lips a breath away. He remembers the warmth of his neck, of his heartbeat lulling him into comfort, of Hinata’s fingers gently caressing knuckles battered and bruised. His heart aches in a way that only hurts because he feels it with every ounce of his being. And if he concentrates, he can still feel the touch of Hinata’s hand on his skin.

“You can stay here tonight,” Iwaizumi says, standing slowly. “I’ll set up the futon in my room. You can rest in there for a bit, while everyone else arrives home. If you don’t want to deal with them, I’ll bring supper for you.”

“I’ll say hello to them,” Oikawa says quietly. “I promised I’d stop by soon, anyways. I just didn’t think it’d be like this.”

Iwaizumi nods, watching as Oikawa rises to a stand, back straight and gaze softened. He knocks his knuckles against Oikawa’s head, soft enough to let him know that it’s light-hearted play. “What happened to not doing anything too serious, idiot,” he mumbles.

At that, Oikawa chuckles, picking up his bag to pull out his own homework— a list of names and numbers and facts he still has to sort through. “You got me there,” he says softly, curling up on the edge of the sofa and  thumbing through the pages. He needs to think about this, about unravelling the mysteries hidden away in the depths of his own mind, but spends the rest of the night thinking about Hinata’s hair tickling his nose and his hands, so careful, moving around his waist.

—

Hinata’s half asleep, having just arrived at school as the bell rings. The dash to change his shoes and grab his things leaves him winded, attention focused away from the faces in the crowd, from Oikawa approaching. A note is slipped into Hinata's hand as he's headed to the first class of the day, and it’s only then that he realizes Oikawa is there. He brushes up against his shoulder, looks down through the corner of his eye and sends Hinata's heart into overdrive. His jacket today is acid washed and so ripped Hinata has to wonder if it was on purpose. He’s yet to discard it and don the tan uniform blazer Hinata knows hangs in his locker. When Oikawa smiles, the world freezes, that split second a minute Hinata spends trying not to gape before they pass.

He reads the note when he sits down in class. It says, _shou-chan, would you meet me in the hall by room 307 at 10:30?_ It’s poised like a question even though it's a demand. Hinata would go even if it wasn't— Oikawa knows this, because he knows everything. He knows he’s ensnared Hinata and knows that Hinata will spend the time until then wondering and wondering and _wondering._

Class is spent with the subtle tick tick of Hinata's fingers drumming against the keyboard of his computer. Outside, the rain eats away anything left uncovered. Here, people park their fast cars in safe havens under concrete people would die to live in. Here, people carry umbrellas made of thick material to keep out the acid rain. The wind blows, and whips the blinds around. A girl with a pink mask, glowing and neon over her nose and mouth, shuts the window.

When it's 10:24, Hinata leaves out of not having anything better to do. The teacher turns his back to write something on the board, and doesn't notice when Hinata slips out, carrying his things with him. It's not the best idea to do this— Hinata's attendance to this school dances on a tightrope of obedience and proving himself useful— but this is _Oikawa,_ and at this point, Hinata isn’t sure what he wouldn’t do.

He waits all six minutes for Oikawa to arrive in silence, chewing on the inside of his cheek like it was bubble gum until the taste of iron overwhelms him. When Oikawa saunters down the hall, no books or bags to be seen, he relaxes at the same time his guts tighten, his heart soars. Oikawa smiles without showing his teeth and moves closer until the lack of space becomes almost uncomfortable, pressing him against the wall, his voice not above a whisper.

"I found something," he murmurs, as if this is seduction and not illegal conspiracy against the government. Hinata can hear the excitement held at bay in Oikawa’s tone.

Hinata gulps, trying not to let colour rise in his cheeks. "What is it?" he asks, and he's not used to his voice being so small but he's rendered with no choice in this predicament. They can’t be caught talking about this and if Oikawa’s telling him now, it must be important.

"I got access to some records, and there was a file talking about government funded research projects,” he explains, and somehow their foreheads have pressed together, Oikawa’s hand resting on his waist. "There’s this thing called—"

Whirring echoes down the hallway, bounces off each and every wall and amplifies the fear of being overheard. Hinata freezes, thinks _patrol drone_ and scans his mind for any excuse to why they were discussing what they were, why they're sneaking out together, why—

By the time the drone reaches them, he doesn't have to. Oikawa's already got a hand splayed on his waist and another resting against the wall beside Hinata's head, eyes glinting before his mouth connects with his own.

God, Hinata wasn't expecting this, body still screaming and running on high. He melts anyways, because a question of _what if I did_ is too loud to ignore. So he gives in and parts his lips and lets Oikawa press in his tongue, feels the hum on his mouth and the drag on his lip when Oikawa inhales, stealing his breath. On their own accord, Hinata’s hands raise to press against Oikawa’s chest, gripping the fabric that separates them. But does it? Oikawa _kisses_ him like his own goal is to crawl inside of Hinata’s skin, mouth brushing across all of the skin he can find. His lips briefly wander to his jaw for half a second, giving Hinata the time to release a small noise of desperation before it’s swallowed once again. Oikawa’s teeth nibble at his lip and Hinata’s knees threaten to buckle under the weight of all of his wildest dreams coming true in one morning. He’s forgotten all about the drone, about school, about what lies below, caught up in the way Oikawa cradles his chin as he kisses him. Hinata resigns himself to stay there forever, just _kissing_ before he even realizes the drone has spoken.

"Please refrain from displays of intimacy in hallways, Hinata Shouyou, Oikawa Tooru," it says. "Failure to return to your scheduled class will result in being written up."

Oikawa pops off his mouth, like it was nothing, cocks his head and smiles sweet and wide— fine sugar, cherry coke. "Ah, sorry! I'll escort Hinata back to his class." His tone is falsified, like the moment spent against each other Hinata still relives in his head. A part of him burns, asks _did he mean it?_ before choking on the adrenaline and shake of hands that'll outweigh any wonderings until he's alone again. But the drone turns and whirs away, leaving Oikawa pressed so close to him, making no move to step away. “Where were we?” he murmurs, raising a hand to thumb Hinata’s lips. His cheeks are flushed a nice shade of red, cool, like the undertones of his skin. His lips are fuller too— swollen, ever so slightly. Hinata swallows, realizing _he_ did that.

“A— a report,” Hinata stammers out in answer.

Oikawa chuckles, licking his lips. “Oh, Shou-chan, I wasn’t talking about that.” He pauses, eyes crinkling in a way that tells he’s thinking— deciding. He eventually drops his hand from Hinata's mouth, moving instead to cup his cheek. “I’ll tell you the rest at lunch. You should go back to class before someone realizes you're gone.”

Breathless, Hinata stares, wide-eyed, lips buzzing. “Why did you even call me out then?”

Oikawa’s next smile is smug, spreading across his cheeks as his eyes curve into crescents. “Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to see you?” Oikawa’s gaze falls onto his lips once more, and Hinata finds himself nodding. “Good. Because I do.”

With his heart pounding, Hinata lifts a hand to rest over the sleeve of Oikawa’s jacket. “Do I have to go back to class then?” he whispers. “Can’t I stay here with you?”

Oikawa quirks a brow, smile widening still. “You’ve been terribly influenced. You’re supposed to be a good student, Shou-chan.”

Hinata bites his lip, glancing at the ground. “It’s not a bad thing. I don’t mind when— when it's you.”

“You're making it hard to let you head back,” Oikawa hums, pressing his forehead to Hinata’s. “I’ll be waiting for you on the roof.”

Hinata’s breath shakes out of him. “O-okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll be there.”

Oikawa slowly steps back, giving Hinata room to breathe. The air is cooler when not shared between them, and Hinata is sure his face is still flushed a bright pink. He doesn’t want to move, would rather stay in place staring up into Oikawa’s eyes until those arms wrap around him once more, until he leans down and presses him back against the wall. He wants to kiss the smile off his lips.

But he doesn’t, slowly pulling himself away from the magnetic force that Oikawa seemingly exudes. Hinata steps back, turns around, and looks over his shoulder once, twice, before disappearing down the hall, Oikawa’s gaze lingering over his shoulder. He slips into class just as the next one begins, and doesn’t think about math, or physics, or chemistry. He thinks about Oikawa’s hand on his cheek and lips against his, soft and warm and enough to bring warmth, and counts every second until lunch rolls around.

—

Hinata is actually the first to arrive on the roof for once, despite the others’ classrooms being closer, leaving him to sit cross legged as the wind bites through his jacket. He spends the few minutes it takes for the third years to arrive drumming his hands on his thighs and watching the trains whiz by, a blur hardly visible if he isn’t focusing. There’s so much to see in the city, like an endless game of I Spy that only becomes harder when he turns his head. It at least stops him from pacing, containing the energy inside of himself as he replays every moment of Oikawa _kissing him_ — the smooth glide of their lips together, the hint of sugar left on his lips, the warmth of his breath as it combines with his own. He’s flushed red, confused and uncertain, because as much as Oikawa seems to be invested, there’s a trickle of doubt that pools in the back of his mind.

Hinata knows he cares about Oikawa, just as he cares about his family and friends. But it goes further, beyond that initial stage of caring. It’s bigger, grounded and rooted in his heart. But for all of Oikawa’s advances, Hinata can’t help but wonder, how far does it _go_ for him? How much of it is spur of the moment and how much of it is this inexplicable, deep seeded yearning to grow close? Does Oikawa long for Hinata in the same way he longs for him? Hinata worries his lip between his teeth, tugging on the hem of his uniform as his mind races with all different kinds of possibilities, from terrifying to hurtful to something straight out of a fantasy.

It’s then that his friends wander in, with none of the banter that usually follows the four when they flock together, saving Hinata from worrying further. He finds his face burning at the sight of Oikawa nonetheless, face schooled into seriousness with his hands tucked into his pockets, hidden from sight. He must’ve already told the others that he found something, Hinata guesses, because there would be no other reason for Hanamaki and Matsukawa not to be trading idle conversation, no other reason for Oikawa to be holding his tongue from noticing the way Hinata's lips unconsciously part.

“Wh-what’s wrong?” Hinata asks once they sit in their usual spots, attempting to get his pounding heart under control. “What happened?”

“I used a connection I have to access some of the _Crest Associations_ filings. It wasn’t cheap but what I got out of it is worth it,” Oikawa explains, eyes never leaving Hinata. “They’re a research and development firm that sponsors, mainly, industrial and technological advancement. There’s a document that details a report on many of these advancements— each summary is brief, simple. But hidden in the useless data aren’t just architectural and construction groups. There’s an entire page dedicated to _experiments_ on something called _Project 072059.”_

“Let me guess,” Iwaizumi says, crossing his arms. “None of it has to do with industry.”

Oikawa grins. “Not in the slightest. Granted, most of it was redacted— I can’t see what was these experiments were, but I can see the dates and notes. They span twelve years. It’s all brief, either _completed, successful; completed, unsuccessful;_ or _incomplete._ The last one was six years ago. All it says is _project compromised, suspended. Subject dangerous, should only be approached by trained personal.”_

Silence is heavy and thick between them, and Hinata gazes at Oikawa's lips, curled into a smile, eyes wild and electric. Hinata can’t say anything, is caught in a moment of wonder as Hanamaki sighs.

“My mother is on the executive board of that group as a sponsor,” he tells him. “If you think that this is about you—“

“It _has_ to be,” Oikawa says, and his voice is heavy and amazed as he presses his hand onto the ground. “Six years ago is the limit of my memories, and when Iwa-chan found me. The experiments start eighteen years ago, and _I_ am roughly eighteen— it all makes _sense_.”

“What exactly does the position of executive board member and sponsor entail?” Matsukawa asks, hand resting on Hanamakis thigh.

“Fuck if I know. I could ask, but…” he trails off, shrugging as his face goes sour. “I’d rather we go the long way around and try and get through some files. She won’t talk to me.”

“We can work with that,” Oikawa tells him, still grinning. Matsukawa squeezes his boyfriends shoulder and Hinata feels a surge of _wanting_ inside of him as he glances back up to Oikawa. “But anything else we should discuss elsewhere.”

Oikawa’s eyes flick casually to the door to the roof. Anyone else would simply see a casual glance away, but Hinata sees something else— narrow eyes, sharp and analytic as they scan the surrounding buildings that rise high above the school. Hinata can guess what he’s look for: cameras that capture their lips, that zoom, that angle towards them. He turns back, chin tilting before eyes, gaze slowly rolling over to meet Hinata. His lips curl softly into a smile.  

“Anyways,” he says, and his voice is light and casual, and suddenly they’re no longer committing conspiracy, suddenly they've become the teenagers they are as conversation fades into easy laughter. Hinata finds his own voice a world away as his eyes choose to linger on Oikawa's knuckles, the same knuckles that once housed bruises and scrapes Hinata bandaged. He wonders— are there new scars lying on the bare chest Hinata had once seen? Could he ever learn to memorize and love each one, until they were just shapes and lines on his body, no longer the proof of all of the harm Oikawa has gone through in the world beyond his memories?

Time passes quickly like that, like water through open palms, with Hinata lost in his own thoughts. He’s startled from his daze by the echoing tone of the automated bell that projects out from the school. Hanamaki sighs, mumbling complaints as he untangles himself from Matsukawa and stands, dusting off his knees. Iwaizumi and Matsukawa follow behind him, still caught up in whatever they were talking about that Hinata had missed. It leaves him staring blankly at Oikawa, still seated across from him, suddenly aware of how alive his skin feels under his gaze.

“I hope we can see each other outside of school before the weekend,” Oikawa muses, lips twitching to a smile.

Hinata swallows the sand in his throat. “I-isn’t that impatient?”

“Hardly,” Oikawa replies, rising onto one knee. “I just want to be alone with you again.”

One hand reaches out to cup Hinata’s cheek, brushing lightly against his jaw and leaving Hinata a lit fuse of shock. “We’re alone now, aren't we?” Hinata asks, and his voice is clear despite how his chest begins to beat at an unsteady rhythm, out of time, out of loop. The soft hair on Hinata’s cheeks sends the faintest of shivers through him, a light breath of air escaping him in sheer adoration as Oikawa’s eyes soften into something fond, smile widening.

“This isn’t long enough,” he tells him, thumb swiping across Hinata’s bottom lip as he pulls his hand away and stands. Instinctively, Hinata licks his lips the second after, watching how Oikawa’s throat bobs. “I’ll be seeing you then, Shou-chan.”

With that, he walks away. Hinata inhales sharply, before whispering.

“You will.”

And maybe didn’t hear over the noise of cars and voices that rises from the streets, but as he reaches the door, Oikawa stops, and tilts his head back. And if Hinata is right, and if he knows Oikawa as well as he hopes, then he may just have been listening.

—

Hinata’s walk home is plagued by him, though, that isn’t uncommon now. He replays the kiss over and over while he waits for his ID to be scanned at the elevator, lets his fingertips wander to his lips as Oikawa’s words echo endlessly in his skull.

_Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to see you?_

_I just want to be alone with you again._

And the kiss— the _kiss._ When he thinks about the situation with his half rational mind, it was an unnecessary diversion. _Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to see you?_ Hinata’s mind is a mess. Oikawa had come to divulge information—

“What level?” the guard attendant asks, scrutiny clear in his gaze as he allows Hinata to step forwards through the metal detector.

He doesn’t hesitate. “The bottom— Level 50, please.”

There’s no need to wait for the guard’s reaction. He steps into the elevator, the thin, rickety metal frame encasing him in a mockery of safety. There’s nothing left to do besides settle in for the long haul and breathe, waiting for the doors to open once more. When they do, Hinata is greeted with the crash of the tide beneath his feet and the memory of where to go, a map laid out before him in the form of salt lines left on rusted metal.

There's a bread crumb trail of seaweed and glass left from the receding tide, puddles that soak his already damp sneakers and leave the taste of salt on his feet. It’s bearable at the surface, but here? Here a perpetual chill clings to Hinata, leaves his breaths shallow and heartbeat deafening in his ears. Gunshots rattling off metal, blasting in a small room. Hinata likes to think when he looks at Oikawa, his entire chest goes radioactive. He doesn't doubt Oikawa already knows.

Oikawa is there, lying with one leg bent and the other outstretched, arms hanging slack at the ground below. At the patter of Hinata’s echoing footsteps, he sits up, cocking his head with that all-knowing smirk as he watches Hinata approach. Bat, snake, hawk. He licks his bottom lip, and the aged eau de cologne of ocean and honey intoxicates Hinata enough to sway.

“Oh, you’re here,” Oikawa says, raising his brows. When Hinata's words abandon him in his throat, he jumps down, landing on the platform. The gong of his feet against the metal reverberates endlessly against the concrete, steel, and water, occupies the space just quieter than Hinata's wandering eyes. He’s fixated on the scar that trails down Oikawa's collarbone, that traces his shoulder in mockery of a gentle touch. Hinata takes two steps forwards, and Oikawa shifts his weight, meeting his stare with eyes that bore into the pit of his chest. Nuclear.

“Were you wondering about those files I found? I have them here, if you wanna read through for yourself,” he says. The words are teasing, because Oikawa knows that isn't why he came. He can tell just by the flicker of Hinata's gaze, from his lips to his hands, the ever accelerating pace of the breaths he takes. But Oikawa would never assume, would never take without Hinata asking, will string him along knowingly just to see the lengths it'll take for Hinata to speak up and say what they're both thinking.

“I’m not here for that.” Hinata's voice is a shadow of his strength, is quiet when everything else is loud, is the nails-on-metal grinding gears kind of tingle that traces down his neck. Oikawa’s eyes glimmer, and he saunters closer, until Hinata is backed against another beam, trying to retain the space he wants to abolish, knees buckling from behind when he hits a horizontal support. He sits down and sees Oikawa's height in full, watches as he looms for half a beat before bending his knees and brushing a hand up Hinata's bare arm.

“Oh? Then what are you here for?” His speech is illicit, is low in frequency as it hums through every cell in Hinata's body. Can he hear his heart as clear as he can see his attraction? Can Oikawa spot the dance of hair on his neck, the adrenaline rush fuelled by the line drawn between thrill and terror?

“I...” Hinata’s voice escapes him, throat so dry, body thrumming in anticipation of Oikawa’s next move. His right hand stays on his arm, but the left rests on his knee, holding in place, bracing, pacing. A thought bred out of frustration flashes through his mind— _why won’t he just kiss me again?_ It leaves him both embarrassed and righteous, because _how could he just think that_ and _why is that wrong, he’s done it before._

“Hm?” Eyes half lidded, smile barely showing teeth, Oikawa hums. Tease, jester. Two of swords.

Hinata asks, because that's all he can do with his heart in his neck and his pulse reaching out, desperate, “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” Oikawa asks, and the counter is so fast Hinata almost doesn't realize he’s leaning in again, that hand on his knee pressing up and up his neck. He’s supported by the beam beneath him and the wall— two saving graces when Oikawa's breath fans over his neck, eyes fluttering up one last time to gauge his reaction before lips meet the crook of his neck.

_Boom._

He’s weak now, clinging onto the fabric of Oikawa's shirt like a lifeline, breath hitching when Oikawa tunes him to his liking. He plays him like a puppet with hands that already know where to make him shiver _._ Teeth graze his pulse points and Oikawa bites down, pulls notes from Hinata's lips in the form of his hands reaching for his shoulders. His thigh— the one Oikawa touches— bursts aflame, crackles with energy and life as if newly awoken. He arches his back into Oikawa's touch, the mouth on his neck unrelenting, unmoving until Oikawa becomes satisfied with what he leaves behind. And just as Hinata regains his bearings, and just after catching a sight of his cherry cheeks, he ducks back down, slow, tedious, tongue on jaw tracing the shudder down Hinata's spine.

“O-Oikawa,” Hinata stammers, eyes pried open to watch the waves of brown hair part for chestnut eyes, glinting, smirking.

“Try again, Shouyou.” And just the use of his full given name steals what's left in his lungs, the exhale tinted with a breath of two syllables—

_“Tooru.”_

Then Oikawa kisses him, for real this time. Lips on his, chests pressed close, every shudder conducted like it’s his goal. When Oikawa drags out his bottom lip, hand diving under his tee, Hinata shivers. When his tongue licks into him, heavy and raw, the fever rises down past his cheeks.

All that he wanted to say is gone— clarification useless in the eye of Oikawa's storm. The chaos is only clear here, now, in the epicentre of hot faces and moans into mouths, every movement against Hinata a bullet in his heart. Now, that hand traces his abs, circles his chest, knowing hum against Hinata's lip vibrating down to the core of his being, sending shivers to the very tips of his fingers. Oikawa relishes in it, in how he reveres Hinata, takes pride in undoing the knot of tension between his shoulders and the one under his jaw. When Hinata breaks, it's never for long, drawn back in before his eyes even open.

“Tooru,” Hinata murmurs against him, and it only spurs him on. Oikawa runs his tongue underneath Hinata’s and there's nothing Hinata can do besides hold on. His fingers twine themselves into Oikawa’s hair, and he has half a mind to revel in the softness before he realizes that Oikawa’s breath has caught, and that Oikawa is pressing so close, swinging his legs over the beam Hinata sits on. He can’t grasp the fact that Oikawa is straddling him, not when Oikawa bites again and soothes the sharp jolt of pleasure tinted pain with a kiss. He can only curl his fingers tighter and sigh, because there is no doubting this, not anymore.

Oikawa pulls away on his next breath, ducking his head to press his lips to Hinata’s jaw. Hinata jumps— the cool spit on his burning skin leaves his head swirling, hair raising as Oikawa’s teeth gently pull at the thin barrier of skin below the cut of his jaw. Hinata holds him there, breathing heavy as the tingly feeling of warmth curls down his throat to nestle in his chest. He moves on after a few moments, trailing kisses wet and warm up to his ear, where Hinata can hear shaken exhales and his own rapid pace heart, alongside his own cry when Oikawa bites his earlobe.

Oikawa laughs, and it’s genuine and light, his nose pressing into the place where Hinata’s neck meets his collar. Slowly, the sound rumbles through him too, calming his racing pulse a moment before Oikawa licks a stripe up his throat. He switches to the right side of Hinata’s neck, and Hinata bares it without thinking, stretching his head to the side as Oikawa kisses along, playing with him to see how close he can bring Hinata to falling prone.

When their lips meet again, Hinata is hungry. He drops one hand to grip Oikawa’s shoulder and kisses him feverishly— again and again, repetition, succession, over and over. When Oikawa catches his lip and bites again, Hinata stills, giving his senses a chance to catch up to the parts of him that have been racing, and in his moment of slowness, Oikawa pushes once more. He kisses him, softer, sweeter, and Hinata loosens his hold ever so slightly. Oikawa kisses him again, and in the pit of his stomach, Hinata swears flowers bloom.

Slowly, Hinata opens his eyes to see Oikawa staring at him. His own image is reflected in deep black pupils, the brown iris nothing but an earthy rim to the depths of Oikawa’s eyes. There’s colour in his cheeks, too, though Hinata doesn’t doubt his own blush wins in any contest of pigment. Oikawa licks his lips, and smiles, tongue caught in his teeth as Hinata builds up the breath to speak.

“W-what am I to you?” he asks, and oh, does he hope he knows the answer. Oikawa’s eyes gleam and his chest swells.

“Mine,” Oikawa replies, leaning forwards to press their lips together once more. “And I’m yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!! comments and kudos are extra appreciated....


	6. recoil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!!! this is one of my fave chapters so far i think??? so i really hope you enjoy it!!! hmu with ur thoughts on it !!  
> \--kj
> 
> WARNING!!! chapter opens with a VERY graphic scene. read the end note for detailed trigger warnings and be safe!!

The first thing Oikawa sees when he opens his eyes are lights— white, bold, directed towards him and his eyes and his body. They leave deep shadows in the corners of this small an empty room, with blank walls that seem like nothing until the different shades of white balance out. Oikawa squeezes his eyes shut, blinking _hard_ before opening them again. This time, he can make out the gleam of metal and glass, cool, like the gazes of four sets of eyes on him. Then, he realizes, he is not alone.

Fear sparks from deep inside of him and spreads faster than any emotion before it, and in the heartbeat of a second Oikawa is reaching up with all his might to _strangle_ the masked man looming over him but, in fact, he isn’t. He isn’t because his hands and wrists and arms are bound so tight that the hard material leaves him bruising. He looks down, past his bare chest and towards his hands, staring at the needle pierced through. And everything around him smells sterile, like rubbing alcohol and bleach, like the thin mattress he sleeps on. His limbs grow numb, his mind races, and his eyes stay open. 

Oikawa’s voice doesn’t form the pleas he knows are useless. Instead, he mouths them, small, twitches of his lips— _why, no, don’t, stop, stop, stop—_ repeated like a mantra as one of the four people in the room holds the sides of his head, positioning it as if to force him to stare at his own chest. His skin is cold, his tears burning as they slip down his cheeks and onto their latex gloves, pooling in the crevasses. And under the bright lamps that shine on him, Oikawa catching the glint of a silver scalpel just before it presses into the flesh above his sternum.

He feels nothing, not a flinch of pain as it drags down to end at the bottom of his ribs, not an ache as they peel back skin to reveal what lays underneath. The air is thick with the stench of iron, like the blood that coats his muscles and the organs underneath. And when Oikawa closes his eyes they are pried open, and when he tries to look away he’s jerked back, and when the people with their gloves and masks dig their fingers into him, he can hardly notice anything else but his own insides. And he watches, perfectly still, as they remove his lungs, tossing them, angry and red, onto the table with their tools.

He isn’t breathing. He doesn’t, not until they stitch and weave the synthetic material into the gaping hole inside of him. He breathes, and the air tastes the same. He breathes, and watches his chest, false lungs and all, move up and down in time with each exhale. And as they put him back together, needle piercing through unfeeling skin, the memory ends.

Oikawa wakes, jolts upwards, and stares down at the scar that runs vertical down his chest. He stares, and stares, and breathes, and breathes. He doesn’t realize he’s screaming until his voice goes hoarse. He doesn’t stop crying until he collapses.

—

The clock at Hinata’s bedside blinks, glaring red numbers switching with the changing of an hour. It’s two in the morning and Hinata still can't sleep, limbs light as he floats on a cloud of elation. There is still a phantom of sensation tingling on his lips, a constant reminder of Oikawa. Oikawa, with red lips and soft eyes and dangerous, _dangerous_ words. _Mine,_ Oikawa had called him, the unsurprising possessiveness he held over him lighting a fire in his chest as he reaches upwards, hands covering his face and legs kicking as he tries to keep any high-pitched noises from leaving his throat. _Mine. Yours._ Two simple words are enough to spark lightning and leave Hinata grinning up at the ceiling. Oikawa had kissed him, more than once, and made it clear he intended to do so again. Hinata has finally come to realize the desire he harboured— to be held in his arms, to kiss the bridge of his nose, to be close and around and under him— can all be realized. 

The smallest groan of metal isn’t enough to pull him from his thoughts, but hands gripping the sill of his window are. Hinata sits up immediately, headrush creating static in his vision. Through the low light of his room, Hinata can watch as Oikawa soundlessly hoists himself through the window, landing next to him in his bed. Instantly, Hinata’s eyes scan his body for any wounds, hands reaching out to hold his shoulders. There are no bloodstains to be seen, but Oikawa trembles underneath his fingers, a controlled kind of energy held at bay by years of cultivated self control. 

“Oi—Tooru? What— are you okay?” Hinata whispers, eyes searching his face. 

Oikawa slumps forwards, curling up against Hinata’s shoulder. His arms wrap around to rest on Hinata’s back, cradling him against his chest as his nose tucks close into the crook of his neck. He doesn't speak, instead choosing to sit there, pulse thumping loud enough for Hinata to hear, in sleep clothes that are worn and soft under Hinata's fingertips. Ragged breaths shake through Oikawa’s shoulders in an unsteady rhythm— in and in and in and out and in and in and out and out and out and out and—

“Tooru,” Hinata murmurs, reaching up to comb his fingertips through Oikawa’s hair. “Just breathe.”

Hinata inhales deeply, chest expanding to press closer against Oikawa. He mimics his slow intake of air, exhaling on cue until the only trembles are sporadic flinches at passing sounds. There’s no telling how long they stay like that, wrapped up in each other’s arms, breathing in stale night air and sea salt and cotton and Oikawa’s breath tickling the bruises he left just hours before. Hinata’s heart carries an ache as it beats, longing for the smile of genuine content to grace Oikawa’s features again. 

“What happened?” Hinata asks, and his voice is hardly audible, syllables laced over a breath that could just be mistaken for another exhale. But Oikawa shifts, and although he doesn’t respond, Hinata knows he heard, and waits with the patience not of a saint but as someone who’s well being is tethered to another’s.

“Sometimes,” Oikawa says, voice scratching at his vocal chords in a low rumble. “I don’t ever want to remember what they did to me. But I want it back. I want back all the memories and time and self they’ve taken from me. I don’t want these scars and these experiences and I don’t want to be whatever they created me to be.” He pulls back, staring down at Hinata with eyes wide and pained. “They took— they took out my _lungs._ They made me _watch._ They’ve tampered and touched and took whatever they desired and I don’t know why and sometimes I can’t find the energy to care.”

The bitterness in his tone is palpable. Hinata licks his lips and cups Oikawa’s jaw, thumb brushing against his cheek. “Th—they’ll never touch you again. We— _I’ll_ make sure of it,” he promises, as if he has the ability to hold back the powers that threaten Oikawa. 

Oikawa cracks a mirthful smile, breaking through the shell of pain. With fondness melting the hurt in his eyes, he leans down, lips pressing against Hinata’s forehead. It’s not what Hinata expects, leaving his mouth agape and breath caught, mind scrambling to catch up to his rapid blush. Hinata’s eyes flutter shut as Oikawa leans him back, lying him down among the blankets strewn on his bed. Hinata’s heart flutters when Oikawa’s lips brush against his own, a barely there touch that ignites every nerve ending as he kisses him again, and again, and again, each movement soft and gentle and chaste. Limbs still tangled, Hinata allows himself to revel in the weight of Oikawa pressed so close, of kisses that settle warmth deep in his tummy, kisses with no direction, no intention of deepening. The throes of sleep claw at his vision, and either Oikawa senses or feels it too. He pulls back, blinks slow, and trails a fingertip down the bridge of Hinata’s nose.

“I’m glad you came here,” Hinata tells him, confession quiet as the hour changes. 

Oikawa ducks forwards, head settling back by the crook of Hinata’s neck, near his ear and murmurs, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

—

Their morning routine is much the same as the previous morning shared together, with the addition of kisses pressed across Hinata’s back, speckled over his neck as they get ready for the next day. He’s not late waking up this time, if only because Oikawa is placated with kisses— slow, warm kisses that bring heat to Hinata’s cheeks and a soft kind of numbness to his lips. There’s less resistance to let Hinata stand and throw on his uniform, still flushed from the face down, still making Oikawa shut his eyes when he slips off his pants. 

Oikawa adjusts the hem of his joggers so that they don't ride as low on his hips, combs his hair with his fingers and hums quietly as Hinata fiddles with the last of his buttons. It’s a sight to behold, and Hinata finds himself staring at what little skin is flashed when Oikawa pulls up his shirt, eyes trailing to the v of his hips and the hem of his pants. Oikawa grabs his jacket from the floor, having tossed it there the night before, and slips it on before creeping towards the window. He pauses, looking over his shoulder with a smirk. 

“W-What is it?” Hinata asks, blush burning his ears as Oikawa taps his lips with his finger. 

“Don’t you want a kiss before I go?” Oikawa teases, tongue darting out to lick his lip. 

Sputtering, Hinata looks around wildly, eyes darting to the door. “But— I— you're just going to the door—“

Tutting, Oikawa shifts, moving away from the window and towards Hinata. He quickly pulls him in and presses his lips to the top of Hinata’s head before darting out of the window without a sound. Hinata is left in a state of whiplash, swaying on his feet, near swooning. He stays frozen like that for a moment, caught up in the reality of small affections and butterflies spasming in his throat until his mother shouts his name. 

“Shouyou!” she calls out, excitement clear in her tone. “Oikawa is at the door!”

Hinata exhales, breath falling from his lungs in a tumble of emotions as he snatches his backpack and pushes open the door to meet Oikawa with a smile, as if they hadn't just shared a bed, as if Oikawa hadn’t just spent the morning trying to kiss every freckle on his shoulders. 

Hinata tugs on the collar of his shirt. He’s sure it covers the hickies Oikawa left from their time at his warehouse hideout, but just having Oikawa and mother in the same room heightens his awareness of the marks. 

“Good morning, Shou-chan,” Oikawa says, closing his eyes, tilting his head as he smiles— a facade of innocence Hinata can see through like glass. “Sleep well?”

Ayame coos. “How nice of you to walk him to school!” She turns to Hinata, waving a finger. “You’re very lucky, mister.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing, Hinata-san,” Oikawa assures her, flashing Hinata a grin. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

A pin could be heard dropping in the vacuum of silence following his word. Like an old tea kettle, Hinata's ears heat to a boil, stomach turning as he watches his mother’s eyes widen, her smile spread into a full fledged grin of parental embarrassment and excitement. _Yours_ and _mine_ are powerful words, but the term boyfriend— _boyfriend—_ carries a layer of endearing normalcy that fuels the feverish blush inside of him. 

“Shouyou! You never said he was your _boyfriend!”_ his mother exclaims, playfully tapping Oikawa’s shoulder. “I _knew_ he was just your type!”

Hinata attempts to shrink into his jacket as Oikawa laughs into his hand. “It’s—it’s a new thing,” Hinata stammers. 

“Well, Oikawa, you’re welcome to stay for breakfast, if you’d like,” his mother says, smiling. “You must’ve gotten up early to be here— did you have a chance to eat?”

Oikawa shakes his head as Ayame walks towards the stove, tearing open a few ration packets and pouring them into the bowl. “I didn’t— thank you for your generosity.” He looks over to Hinata and smiles, walking forwards until he can loop his arm around his waist. Hinata stumbles slightly under the weight of Oikawa pulling him close to his side, a small, shocked noise escaping his lips just as Natsu waddles out of her room in her favourite pink onesie. Spotting Hinata in the midst of Oikawa’s tight embrace, she bolts forwards, latching onto Oikawa’s knee. 

“Up!” she demands, yanking on Oikawa's sweater. “Shouyou, tell him to let me up!”

“Natsu, what do we say when we want something?” Ayame calls out from the stove while Hinata tries not to die while watching his boyfriend smile down at his sister. 

She pouts for a moment, before sighing dramatically. “We say _please_ let me up!”

Oikawa chuckles, unwrapping himself from Hinata’s side. He tilts his head and smiles wide and warm at her, bending down and holding out his arms. “Well then, I can’t say no to that then, can I?”

Natsu cheers, vaulting herself into Oikawa’s arms. He swoops her up with ease, lifting her as high above his head as he can without hitting the ceiling. He spins her and Natsu shrieks, and Hinata can hardly contain the smile that spreads across his face at Oikawa’s expression of complete and utter genuine happiness. It’s as if the night before had never happened, as if all of his worries, his pain, was washed away in the realm of dreams. Hinata knows it can’t be true, but as he watches Oikawa set Natsu down and ruffle her hair, he can only be thankful that Oikawa came to him. 

“Come on now, sit down,” Ayame calls, scooping the mixed rice rations into bowls. Natsu darts forwards, forgetting about Oikawa entirely now that food is in the picture. She’s all warmth and kindness as she passes Oikawa his bowl, letting him take her seat at the table while she eats leaning up against the counter. Thanking her, Oikawa eats in relative silence, foot kicking out to brush across Hinata’s calf. Instead of responding, Hinata scarfs down the rest of his meal, turning to his mother. 

“How was work yesterday?” he asks. She was asleep by the time he arrived home last night, leaving them to play catch up over breakfast. 

His mom hums, pursing her lips. “Well, it went fine, I guess,” she tells him. “But there was about… oh, I don’t know, not quite half the workers got laid off. I’ll be working longer hours now.”

Hinata heaves a sigh of relief as Oikawa’s head perks up. “Increased automation?” Oikawa asks, earning him a surprised reaction from Ayame. 

“No, most of my job is managing robots. I guess they wanted to cut down on numbers and make more use of less people,” she explains. “They’re gonna pay half my salary in food rations now, though. That'll help us over the winter.”

“Did you know it was coming?” Oikawa presses, tone casual, foot slipping higher up towards Hinata’s knee. Hinata struggles to focus on schooling his face, wondering how Oikawa can move his long, _long_ legs so easily, and the conversation. 

Ayame shakes her head, swallowing a mouthful of rice. “No, they just never showed up one day, and a memo was sent out to explain.” She shrugs, not fazed in the slightly as she leans over to clean the corners of Natsu’s mouth. “I’ll have to leave about the same time as you now,” she adds, snapping Hinata out of his fluster. 

“Speaking of!” he squeaks, Oikawa’s foot sliding back down his leg before moving away completely. “We should really get going— gotta go to _school_ and _learn_ and—“

Hinata trails off, mumbling as he scoops up his bag. His mother sighs, shaking her head as Oikawa politely waves goodbye. 

“Thank you for the meal, Hinata-san,” he says, charm thick and smile dazzling. Like mother like son, Ayame freezes for a moment before laughing, waving her hand. 

“Well, you are welcome back any time,” she says. “Like tonight! You could join us for dinner.”

Hinata dashes forwards, grabbing Oikawa’s sleeve. He tugs in a vain attempt to drag Oikawa to the door, but Oikawa is strong and stands his ground, instead weaving his and Hinata’s hands together. 

“Ah, are you sure? I don’t want to intrude,” Oikawa says, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. Hinata pauses, taking a moment to admire the genuine bashfulness that momentarily paints itself across Oikawa’s face in the form of downcast eyes. 

Ayame nods quickly. “Yes! You’re Shouyou’s _boyfriend,_ you’re welcome any time,” she assures him. “And so are the rest of your friends.”

“Mom!” Hinata squeaks, pulling desperately at his arm. “We have to get going— c’mon Tooru, let’s go!”

“Bye-bye, Tooru!” Natsu shouts out, waving her hands wildly from the table. 

Oikawa, caught in the midst of laughter at Hinata’s futile attempts to separate him from his mother. “Bye-bye, Natsu-chan, Hinata-san! See you tonight!”

Finally, he moves, allowing himself to be led by Hinata out of the door and into the streets. With a sigh, Hinata drops his shoulders, looking up at Oikawa only to watch his face split into a grin. 

“Your mother is so sweet,” he tells him. “I can see where you get it from.”

“Tooru…” Hinata whines, face growing redder as he looks away. He’s not _used_ to being desired, to the entirety of Oikawa’s attention and trust and care. Oikawa, however, simply hums, squeezing Hinata’s hand as he leans down to kiss his cheek. 

“I love it when you say my name,” he mumbles, voice growing softer. “Especially like that.”

Hinata instantly looks up, mouth parting as a shiver runs down his spine. “T-Tooru!” he exclaims. “I— we— we’re in _public!”_

Humming low and warm, Oikawa pulls Hinata closer so that he can slip his arm around his waist. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” Hinata says, instantly, without hesitation. He swallows, staring up into the depth of Oikawa’s eyes, with their hidden scars and purplish bags and brown irises. “I… I like being close to you.”

Oikawa slows to a stop as they approach the elevator, turning completely to face him. “Good,” he mumbles. “Because so do I.”

Hinata’s eyes flutter shut as Oikawa’s free hand cups his cheek, tilting his chin higher. With a gentle sigh, their lips meet, sweet and electric like sugar coated thunderstorms. Oikawa nips his bottom lip before pulling away, leaving Hinata to shudder and chase the kiss, selfishly yearning for _more_ . But the day calls, and neither can follow the other to the surface, though they both know they’ll meet on the other side. So Hinata steps back and passes his ID to the guard, and steps inside of the elevator cage. And when the lift rises, Hinata can close his eyes, and _remember,_ not imagine, Oikawa’s hands on his. 

—

Classes drift by in hastily written notes, a functions test, and endless daydreams. Hinata finds himself bouncing his leg while he writes anticipating the lunchtime bell. Kunimi has been giving him odd looks all class and he’s _tired_ of repeating formulas he already understands while staring at the back of someone’s head. There’s a hundred and one other things on his mind, and nearly every one circles back to Oikawa— to his eyes, his smile, his lips and his hands touching Hinata and the muddled haze of morning they had shared. He _craves_ closeness, loathes the momentary separation between them. The part of him that still thinks logically understands that it’s the shock of everything _new._ That part is grossly overshadowed by each nerve screaming in excitement once the bell goes off.

Hinata stands up from his chair and darts to the front of the room, slipping past the groupings of classmates towards the door. What awaits him in a surprise, enough to send his stomach into a fit of giddy flips as he comes face to face with none other than Oikawa. He leans up against the frame with his hands shoved into his pockets, a sucker on his tongue, and a smile on his lips, standing straight to loom over Hinata as he approaches. The whispers of his classmates fizzle into background noise, their questions nothing more than aimless wonder that Hinata suspends in favour of smiling up at Oikawa and rubbing the back of his neck.

“You didn’t need to see me out of class,” Hinata tells him bashfully.

Oikawa hums. “Humour me, Shou-chan,” he replies taking the time to pluck his lolly out of his mouth before swooping down to plant a soft kiss onto his cheek. Hinata’s breath hitches as Oikawa pulls away, lips lingering near his face, breath tickling his skin and raising the hairs on his neck. When he meets his eyes once more, it’s with a satisfied smile, arm already reaching to curl around his waist. “Come on— I bet the others are already waiting.”

With that, Hinata finds himself relaxing into Oikawa’s hold, lets himself be led through the bustling halls. He can’t be bothered by the stares cast into the hall, the whispers bobbing behind them. Hinata’s too busy being caught up in the sharp cut of Oikawa’s jaw whenever he looks over. His cheek bulges with the sucker pressed against it. Hinata licks his lips, and notices how Oikawa’s lips stretch into a smile at the motion. He can’t fight the blush that follows.

The others have long since arrived when they show up. Their chatter dies down once Hinata and Oikawa approach, staring at them with piqued interest. Hinata moves to sit down in his usual spot, but finds himself promptly yanked closer to Oikawa’s side. He doesn’t have to look up to see the grin that’s no doubt plastered across his face. Matsukawa whistles, brows raising as he hands a bill over to Hanamaki, who throws his head back, laughing.

“I fucking _knew_ it!” he exclaims as he takes the change from Matsukawa.

“I— we— we didn’t even say anything,” Hinata stammers, ears hot against the chilled air. 

“You don’t need to,” Matsukawa says.

“The hickey does all the talking anyways,” Hanamaki jests, snickering as Hinata instantly clamps a hand against his neck. “Thank god though, the tension between you two was getting ridiculous.”

Iwaizumi sighs, cracking open a can of iced coffee. “Tell me about it,” he grumbles. He drops the act if only for the moment, offering the two a small, good natured smile. Hinata returns it, still fighting his blush. 

Oikawa hums, loosening his hold as he begins to sit down. “Sure, Iwa-chan. He has the absolute most adorable blush, don’t you think?” With that he tugs Hinata down with him, arms wrapping around his middle to pull him into his lap. Hinata squeaks, covering his mouth in surprise as an embarrassed smile creeps up on him. He can feel the cotton stuffed flutter in his chest, his heartbeat quickening in rhythm. 

“I didn’t mean that literally, you idiot,” Iwaizumi groans. 

“Rude!” Oikawa chastises, resting his chin on Hinata’s shoulder. 

“And I thought those two were clingy,” Iwaizumi says, glaring at Matsukawa and Hanamaki, who smirk with all the dignity of two boys who couldn’t care less.

Oikawa, too, waves it off, laughter rumbling through Hinata. It’s easy sink into his hold, forearms strong and sturdy against his stomach. The mutual trust between them has sparked a new kind of warmth, one that makes this closeness exciting, once that burns Hinata’s ears red while also bringing every bone in his body to a boil with every shared glance. Sitting like this, there’s nothing to worry about, nothing to bother him besides the fingertips that poke at his sides and bring him to laugh. Here, the world melts away, replaced by friendship and laughter and Oikawa behind him, steady and strong. 

—

Oikawa meets him at the bottom of the elevator that afternoon, having snuck down in the time it took Hinata to make his way down. It’s always surprising how fast he can slip through the cracks in the city’s structure— a testament not only to his physical abilities, but his wits. Oikawa’s jacket is half zipped, the fur collar soft when he leans down to press a kiss to Hinata’s cheek, entwining their hands together. There’s no one here besides the guards and the beggars, but Hinata still finds himself blushing at the display of affection, even as he’s guided through the streets back towards his home. 

He’s still worrying about Oikawa and his mother, even after the two separate encounters that ended with his mother and sister adoring his boyfriend. Oikawa kisses the top of his head, an action with enough power to unwind the tension from Hinata’s shoulders. 

It only occurs to Hinata after they arrive at his home that his mother and sister won’t get back for a few hours. He nearly drops his key at the realization, catching the key before it tumbles to the ground. He slides open the door and drops his bag onto the ground, Oikawa slipping past him. 

“I guess we have time until my mom gets home,” Hinata says, rubbing the back of his neck. Oikawa hums, eyes following Hinata as he moves into his bedroom, undoing his tie. He hangs it on the small rack where all of his clothes lie, sighing now that he can relax. There’s an air of something that follows him as he moves, something he can’t name until he turns to face Oikawa, smirk tilting his smile to one side a moment before closing the gap between them. 

Oikawa’s hand cradles the back of his neck, slotting their lips together and making Hinata gasp in his embrace. His eyes flutter closed as Oikawa kisses him again, other arm wrapping around his waist to hold him close. Oikawa leads the kiss, pulling Hinata along at his pace, smiling against his lips. He moves slow, each kiss smooth and soft against him. Hinata finds himself stealing breaths in every half second reprise, warmth ebbing through him as his hands raise up to rest on Oikawa’s back. Heart pounding in his ears, Hinata finds himself moving closer as Oikawa steps back, finds himself being pulled into Oikawa’s lap as he sits down on Hinata’s bed. There’s a moment where Hinata freezes, realization of their position flooding through him in the form of burning ears. Hinata shifts his legs out from under himself so that they can curl loosely around Oikawa’s centre, eliciting a hum from him that rumbles through Hinata’s chest. 

Now nearly level in height, it becomes easier for Oikawa to kiss down to Hinata’s neck, kisses moving in a line down the curve of his jaw. Hinata breathes heavy at the sensation, an unexpected rush of excitement running through him. 

“Wh-what are we doing?” Hinata asks, voice wavering as Oikawa nibbles on his neck. 

“Wasting time,” Oikawa murmurs against Hinata’s skin. He pulls back only slightly, eyes focusing on the mark he left on Hinata only a day prior. He thumbs over it, smugness radiating from him as Hinata catches his breath.

“Is it really that noticeable?” Hinata mumbles, shy in the way that his gaze flitters from the wall to Oikawa. 

“It could be darker,” Oikawa says, looking up at him through a shadow of eyelashes, some kind of glint hidden in his eyes. Hinata doesn’t have time to ask anything more before Oikawa goes back to pressing open mouthed kisses onto his neck. Hinata’s breath catches in his throat, hands reaching up to comb through Oikawa’s hair. He can feel his breath on his neck, can hear him laugh light as a breeze when Hinata tenses underneath him. Hinata can’t help but shudder as Oikawa bites down, can’t help but lull his head to the side, can’t help but melt into Oikawa’s arms. He is quickly discovering _just_ how sensitive his neck is, because all it takes is a few minutes of Oikawa mouthing up and down the column of his throat for him to start making embarrassingly frequent moans.

Hinata tightens his grip on Oikawa’s hair, shuddering when Oikawa hums low against his neck. The sound rumbles through him as Oikawa twists their bodies to push him against the mattress with a soft _fwump._ Hinata bounces once before settling, wind knocked out of him by the image of Oikawa looming over him, hands splayed on either side of his head, caging him in against his own bed. His blush rages against his skin, as bright as his hair and as wild as the inferno lit inside of his chest. Oikawa wastes no time in swooping down, covering Hinata’s mouth with his own and breathing in his gasp. Hinata parts his lips and lets Oikawa kiss him deeply, revelling in the way he pushes closer and closer and closer as if there isn’t less than an inch between them. He sucks on Hinata’s tongue and _god,_ Hinata thinks, _was this ever a good idea._

He doesn’t whine when Oikawa pulls back, but isn’t far from it. He must pout, because Oikawa laughs good naturedly, leaning back down to kiss his nose before sitting up, straddling Hinata’s waist once more. Hinata can scarcely think of anyone prettier than Oikawa, with hair that looks perfect even when disheveled by his own hands and cheeks that blush the faintest tint of pink. His fingers, long, pianist’s fingers, begin to work the buttons of Hinata’s shirt open until his collarbones are exposed, until he can push the fabric away and run his fingers freely over the tattoo that lays there. There’s a tiny vacuum of silence created as he barely touches it, the calluses of his fingertips enough to raise the hair on the back of Hinata’s neck. Oikawa’s eyes flick up from the ink to bare into Hinata’s, fond and warm for half a second before warping with hints of something smug. The _thump_ of Hinata’s heart against his rib cage is louder still, especially so when Oikawa leans back down to press a feather light kiss to the tattoo.

 _Ironic,_ Hinata thinks, shuddering as Oikawa kisses it again.

“I love this tattoo,” Oikawa murmurs. “Love how it looks on your skin. It suits you.” His lips brush against Hinata’s skin with every word spoken, catching and dragging and smearing a thin layer of spit. 

A high pitched noise escapes Hinata as he slips his fingers back into Oikawa’s hair. “Tooru...” he says, writhing underneath him as he whines. 

“You sure are sensitive, aren't you?” Oikawa remarks, trailing a finger along the side of Hinata’s neck. “I like when you pull my hair. It feels good when you do it.”

Hinata would sink further into the mattress if it were possible, fingers unconsciously curling tighter in Oikawa’s hair in response. “O-oh,” he says, air stolen from his lungs as Oikawa’s eyes flutter closed, lips parting in a silent sigh.

Oikawa hums, leaning back down to plant another kiss on Hinata’s lips. It’s less rushed now, languid, almost lazy. They’re truly wasting time, wrapped up in each other with the world shut away, content to learn the ways each other’s bodies work. Hinata’s fingers massage Oikawa’s scalp as they kiss, and every gentle hum against his lips is a testament to the truth in his earlier statement. Caught in his embrace, Hinata lets himself be led somewhere, drifting down the stream to nothing at all. It’s new and exciting and makes Hinata thrum with anticipation at what’s to come.

When his mother and sister arrive home from work, Oikawa and Hinata are well past disheveled. But Oikawa has a talent for looking put together with swollen lips and a cowlick, and his mother has a talent for being completely oblivious to the way Hinata blushes when Oikawa so much as looks at him. They eat the same rations Hinata has known all of his life and play cards once the dishes are cleaned, Natsu and Oikawa working as a team to win spectacularly. By the time the game is finished, Natsu is yawning, growing tired as the lights begin to go out. Their schedule is thrown off with Ayame’s new hours, but there isn’t any point of complaining when there’s food on the table and smiles on everyone’s faces. Oikawa waits until Natsu heads off with Ayame to get ready for bed to bid Hinata goodnight, leaning up against his door frame with a crooked smile.

“Until tomorrow then?” he says, unwrapping a sucker and sticking it in his mouth.

“Sure you’re not gonna sneak back into my room?” Hinata retorts, holding back a grin as Oikawa laughs.

“Tempting,” he says, popping the sucker from his mouth. “But they _do_ say distance makes the heart grow fonder, so this is where I leave you.”

With that, he swoops in, free hand cupping Hinata’s chin as he kisses him. It’s drawn out and a little more than Hinata expected with his mother and sister somewhere in the house behind him, leaving him a little more winded than he could expect. Slowly, Oikawa leans back, watching Hinata’s eyes flutter open, and licks the candy. Hinata can still taste the sugar.

“Sleep well, Shouyou,” he whispers, and turns to disappear into the streets. Hinata touches his lips and watches him go, reeling in the best way he could.

When he returns to his room, it’s to find the shirt Oikawa slept in the night before lying on the floor. Shamelessly, he pulls it on, finding that it fits more like a short dress on him and threatens to fall off his shoulders and exposes _every_ mark Oikawa left over the past two days. Hinata inhales the scent synonymous with Oikawa, and he imagines that he’s still here, holding him against his chest, chin tucked against his shoulder as they curl up in sheets that still smell like whatever soap he uses. It’s what Hinata dreams of as he drifts off into sleep— Oikawa, tracing patterns on his arm; him, closing his eyes knowing that Oikawa is there.

—

There are a number of things Hinata has learned about level thirty-three after being allowed onto the surface— that everything is as cheap as could be, that the days after it rains results in a strange smell he never really noticed. One of those things was the militant presence and how _strange_ it would seem to someone from the upper levels. Hinata has yet to see an officer with a drawn gun there, and although the rough hewn streets of his home are not teeming with weapons, he’s seen enough not to balk at the sight. It’s why he doesn’t panic when two armed officers approach from the opposite direction as he walks to the elevator. He keeps his head down out of habit and runs over the contents of tomorrow’s geography test in his head. There’s no reason to expect them to pull out their guns, no reason to anticipate their shouts. 

“You!” one shouts, his partner's weapon trained on Hinata. Without command, Hinata’s hands raise into the air as he freezes in place. The officer stalks forwards, grabbing Hinata’s bag to search it’s contents. Hinata’s breath tremors almost as much as his hands, a cold sweat rising. “Identification, _now.”_

Slowly, Hinata reaches down, unzipping one of the inner pockets of his bag. He pulls the card out and offers it to the officer, flinching as it’s snatched from his grasp. The officer pauses as he stares at it, likely in disbelief at his clearance, and wastes no more time in yanking out the scanner. When it flashes blue, the card is thrust back into Hinata’s hands. 

The officer waves his hand, and his partner lowers his gun. Still, Hinata can’t relax. “Where are you going?” the officer questions. 

“A-Aoba Johsai. For school,” Hinata stammers, swallowing thickly. 

The officer narrows his eyes before sidestepping Hinata entirely. “Then get to it,” he commands, moving to rejoin his partner and continue on their way. Hinata stays frozen for only a second, pulse rapidly beating against his skull as if to scream _get out of here._ There’s no more contemplation needed— Hinata bolts the rest of the way to the elevator and doesn’t exhale until it starts climbing, body slumping down in the rickety metal frame. Each inhale is shallow and sharp and his stomach twists into knots, because he _knows_ this can happen, and naïvely assumed it never would to him. 

The weather at the surface is beautiful, sunshine taking the edge off the cool air. It’s mocking in how chipper it makes everyone at school, greatening the divide between this world and his own. Hinata spends his morning classes attempting to shake off the feeling that _something_ is wrong, because it isn’t, because that’s just his life and he’s been dealing with it well enough so far. It twists his stomach with frustration, distracting him enough that he hardly notices when the bell rings. 

Oikawa and the rest of their friends are waiting for him on the roof when he finally arrives. Something in Hinata unspools at the sight of his boyfriend, arms opened wide to greet him. Wordlessly, Hinata sits down and snuggles into his side, resting his head on Oikawa’s shoulder as Oikawa’s arm loops around his waist. Tension slow drains from his body, and the desire to simply rest his forehead on his chest is too strong to ignore. Closing his eyes, Hinata enjoys the weight of Oikawa’s arm around him, protective in a way that warms him from the inside out.

“Did you sleep alright?” Oikawa asks, voice quiet while the others chatter. 

Hinata nods slowly, pulling back slightly to look up at Oikawa. “There were just some angry guards I ran into this morning. But I’m all good, so no worries,” Hinata tells him, offering a smile.

“Are you sure?” Oikawa asks, expression changing into something more serious, eyes narrowing. “You seem shaken.”

Hinata waves it off, shaking his head. “I was just a little freaked out, is all.”

Still suspicious, Oikawa hums, dipping down to kiss the top of Hinata’s head. A small noise escapes Hinata’s lips in surprise, alerting the others of their conversation. “Just let me know if it happens again.”

“Careful, Hinata, or he’s gonna stab someone in your name,” Hanamaki warns, smile all teeth.

“Like some kind of knight in shining armor,” Matsukawa snickers, leaning onto his boyfriend’s side.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and tosses an apple core into the garbage nearby. “Stop inflating his ego before he becomes insufferable. We’re already stuck with him.”

“Speaking of egos,” Hanamaki interrupts, effectively cutting off whatever reply Oikawa had in store. “I’ve got extra complimentary tickets to _The_ _Sleeping Beauty_ on Thursday night.”

“What is it?” Hinata asks, watching as Hanamaki perks up at the question.

“The first production this season at my ballet company,” he explains, riffling through his satchel to pull out a bent out of shape program. “I know it’s not the _coolest_ thing, but I figured I’d ask.” He tosses the program to Hinata, who catches it.

Hinata unfolds the program, skimming over the notes about the show, composition, and dancers. He flips through the roles, finding Hanamaki’s picture and biography detailing him as a suitor to the princess. He’s got the same lazy smile trademark to him, but there’s an unmistakable level of professionalism in the detailed headshot.

“Well, you know I’m coming,” Matsukawa says, snickering when Hanamaki elbows him in the side.

“You’re an idiot if you think we’d blow this off. You’ve worked on this for months,” Iwaizumi says as the program is passed to him. 

“Yeah!” Hinata chimes in, jostling Oikawa as he talks with his hands. “I mean, I’ve never been to something like this. It’ll be fun!”

“Is it the same dress code as the last time we went?” Oikawa asks. 

Hanamaki nods. “Yeah, but expect people to be a little extra fancy. It’s opening night, after all.” He turns to Hinata, as if sensing his anxiety. “If you give me your measurements, I can get a tailor to alter something for you.”

Hinata’s instinct is to politely decline, even though there’s _nothing_ he owns that could be described as remotely fancy. Hanamaki brushes it all off, leaving no further room for Hinata to argue. Perks of being obscenely rich and extremely kind, Hinata figures as Hanamaki grins. 

It’s funny, how quickly good company can wipe away the fears of the rest of the day. Hinata stomach settles as the comfort of friends eases the last remainders of tension from him, content to leave what’s beneath him behind him until he’s forced to confront it on his way home. For now, that world exists separate from this one, where all that exists is them.

—

Oikawa picks him up on Thursday evening outside of the elevator station. The clothes Hanamaki had altered for him fit perfectly— white button down soft and flowing, with golden buttons that glimmer under the neon lamps. The pants hug his legs and shoes shine, and Hinata can't even think to guess what Hanamaki paid for it all. It’s darker earlier now, exposing the city’s manic tendency to appear as if it were the inside of a firework half a second before it explodes. 

Underneath these lights, pink and orange and blue, Oikawa leans against his bike. Hinata could swear he stepped off of a billboard screen and into real life, with a black jacket pulled over a silk floral shirt. There’s a hint of red to his lips that’s telling of his habit, and in the back of his mind, Hinata wonders how many suckers he went through while waiting for him to show. Lazy smile stretched wide, Oikawa catches his eye and stands straight, helmet dangling from one hand. He takes his time looking Hinata up and down, no shame in his actions as Hinata blushes under the attention. 

“Am I ever glad for the excuse to see you dressed up,” Oikawa says fondly, entwining their hands. He leans down for a kiss, soft and sweet, the hints of smile felt against Hinata’s lips. 

“I— I could say the same for you,” Hinata stammers as he pulls away. In response, Oikawa simply raises a brow, squeezing his hand. 

“You flatter me,” Oikawa laughs, eyes warm. He lifts up the helmet between them. “For you, since we’ll be on much faster roads.”

Hinata nods, tilting his chin up as Oikawa slips the helmet on. It’s sleek and snug, with a visor that shields his eyes. Oikawa’s expert fingers tighten the strap, fingertips ghosting along his jaw as he secures the helmet with ease. It takes him much less time to secure his own, and soon Hinata is taking his place behind Oikawa, arms wrapped tight around his waist as the engine revs beneath them. 

The bike lurches forwards and the world around them becomes a blur of a thousand colours, smearing at the peripherals of Hinata’s vision. On the smooth, unblemished streets of the surface, Oikawa picks speed in an instant, leaning to round corners as they slip onto a bypass. Hinata holds onto Oikawa like a lifeline, eyes watching the cars around them become nothing but passing flashes of red and blue. They weave through it all as if it were standing still, racing back down to the street level where buildings stretch towards the clouds. Hinata looks up to look at the lights of the entertainment district, to look at the hologram smiles and people that dance atop clubs in surreal advertisements for the strangest things, technicolor world gleaming in place of the stars the smoke hides. There’s upscale restaurants on balconies shielded from the wind and people looking down with glasses in their hands, amphitheatres where the roar of music and a crowd reaches them even here, passing by in milliseconds. They’re nothing more than a passing flash of red, another neon light on the pixelated picture of this city.

And Hinata’s heart threatens to burst, blood pumping through his veins electric and louder than any engine, any song. Oikawa is as steady as a steel anchor beneath his hands, his body the rock he lies on when the going gets rough, when he wants to see the light. And the light reaches them here, with smiles neither can see but know are there, with the faintest traces of intimacy lining their smallest movements— the shifting of Hinata’s fingers against Oikawa’s waist, the press of his chest to his back. Hinata laughs to himself, a sound that falls on no one’s ears but his own and thinks _god this is the closest we’ve ever been._

Oikawa parks his bike in an underground garage beside a sleek car with no roof, convertible top down and paint glossy blue. He locks the front tire and shoves keys in his pocket, kickstand kicked down and helmet pulled off. Somehow, he looks better with hair mussed and thrown every which way. His eyes are as fiery as Hinata feels, smile wide as he knows his is. Oikawa undoes Hinata’s helmet and pulls it off, taking the time to run his hands through Hinata’s hair and push it back into place. There’s no words to be spoken between them, as if Oikawa just _understands_ the pace set, the balance of this moment. With one hand he cups Hinata’s chin and tilts it up, leaning down to kiss him slow and deep, warmth spreading through their bodies as they work to keep up with every passing thought of their minds. When Oikawa pulls away, it’s to offer Hinata an arm. He takes it without question, cheeks pink, and together they walk back to the streets and towards the theatre.

Hinata doesn’t know what to expect inside, but it certainly isn't glass walls and glass floors and glass ceilings, crystal art pieces shimmering as they hang from the massive ceiling at different lengths. There are people around them in tuxes and dresses, half shorter and half long enough to be considered gowns, with gold and diamonds twinkling like centerpieces on people’s necks. There’s a large, projected picture of the ballet on the back wall towards the theatre entrance, the only solid wall of the four, cycling through snapshots of dances and salutations among other, less important things— sponsorship notices and government promotions. 

In the throngs of the crowd, Oikawa spots Matsukawa, and leads Hinata his way. He’s standing dressed in all black, with a bouquet of no less than three dozen roses in his arms, cherry red and wrapped in shimmering sheer foil. Iwaizumi is at his side, shirtsleeves rolled up and tie a little less than perfect, and while not surprised at their appearance, the two are happy to see them.

“So we don’t have actual tickets?” Hinata asks, pulling at his collar.

“No, they just have our names assigned to the comp-seats 'Hiro got,” Matsukawa explains. He’s rocking back and forth on his heels, and Hinata dares to call the way his fingers drum on his thigh _nervous._ “We might as well go in, now that you’re here.”

With that, they file into the line of people waiting to be ushered into the theatre, moving at a snail’s pace towards the double doors. The ushers standing there take their names and give them their seat numbers, directing them towards the secondary entrance. The next hallway is lit dimly, with numbers and directions to seats and soundproofing contraptions lining the halls. When they finally enter the theatre, it’s to see hundreds of people already sat, dressed to the nines with glasses on their face and in their hands. They’re some of the younger people there, sat near the front but far enough back that there’s no need to crane necks to see the stage in full. Once they’re settled in their seats, Hinata looks up to see small, private balconies lining the walls, like personal boxes separate from the second tier of raised seats. Following his gaze, Oikawa leans over.

“Those seats are usually reserved for important people. Politicians, celebrities, that sort of thing,” he explains, and Hinata could care less about his words because his voice is low and lips close to his ear yet again. Hinata hums and turns to look at him, smile fixated onto his face. They stare at each other, saying nothing, moment unbroken until Oikawa leans down to kiss his nose. Hinata giggles at that, leaning his head onto Oikawa’s shoulder as the seats around them begin to fill. 

It isn’t long before the drone of the orchestral tune up rumbles throughout the theatre, lights beginning to dim into darkness. The deep crimson curtains open with the beginnings of music, stage lights lifting to reveal dancers frozen like statues and sets curling to create a castle from briar roses. There’s a breath to the music, a simple pause, and then the rest of the orchestral joins, dancers springing into life from their tableau. 

It’s enchanting, to watch feats of strength and flexibility done with ease, in perfect synchronization with peers dressed the same. They spin like tops and traverse the stage with effortless grace. Among the many faces, Hinata spies Hanamaki, clad in tight pants and a loose top with wide, flowing sleeves. Though he does his best to follow the plot of the ballet, Hinata finds himself searching for Hanamaki among the dancers in each scene. He exudes the same charm on stage as in real life, playing his role as a suitor perfectly as he spins and jumps and dances like a peacock showing his feathers, lifting the main ballerina high above his head. There’s bright flashes of lights and dark casted shadows, entire groups of dancers creating waves on the stage. All the while, Hinata rests his head on Oikawa’s shoulder, their hands held loosely between them for no other reason than because they can.

After the show finishes with a moment of gravitas of spectacular proportions, after they’ve clapped their hands sore, and after the theatre has begun to empty, Matsukawa leads them a different way out, letting them slip backstage. There’s someone who recognizes Matsukawa enough to let them pass, waving them into yet another blank, empty hall, voices murmuring on either side.

“Hiro said to wait fifteen minutes for everyone to change before going into the dressing room,” he explains as dancers pass by in casual clothes, smiling at Matsukawa and his enormous bouquet. While Matsukawa periodically checks his phone, Oikawa pulls Hinata in close, holding him so that Hinata’s back presses against his chest, resting his chin on top of his head. He sways from side to side, idly rocking them in a lazy method to pass the time until Matsukawa deems it appropriate to enter. 

The dressing room is brightly lit, with vanities lined up in rows, each piled high with boxes and brushes that threaten to obscure the mirrors. Extravagant costumes hang on racks separated by kind, with signs reading _fragile_ in handwritten script. Waiting at a vanity, with his makeup still on but his costume off, is Hanamaki, who looks over his shoulder and brightens, stunned silent as Matsukawa approaches. 

“Congratula—“ Matsukawa starts, only to be cut off when Hanamaki surges forwards to hug him, arms squeezing Matsukawa’s waist. Matsukawa laughs, holding the bouquet out to protect it from being crushed, and kisses Hanamaki with a satisfied grin on his face. They don’t part for at least a whole minute, and when they do, it’s with no acknowledgement to the other three people in the room. 

“You ridiculous man,” Hanamaki says, swatting Matsukawa’s chest. “You bastard. I’m in love.”

“You’re welcome,” Matsukawa says, and how anyone can find a man so utterly whipped intimidating is beyond Hinata as Matsukawa hands Hanamaki the bouquet of roses. Hanamaki shakes his head, disbelief written across his features as he sets them down on his vanity. Hanamaki collapses into his seat, finally looking up to the rest of them with no small amount of smugness. 

“Thanks for coming,” he tells them. Under the bright lights of the dressing room, the makeup on his face glitters, bold eyeliner and lipstick accentuating his features. 

“You did great,” Iwaizumi says as they all circle around his vanity chair. 

“We are all very glad we could come,” Oikawa adds. He still has Hinata leaning against his chest, enjoying the gentle embrace from behind as Hanamaki grins. 

“As opening shows go, I don’t think this could’ve been better. Where are we headed after this? I don’t have to get home at all tonight,” Hanamaki asks, looking sideways at Matsukawa. 

“Well, I’m taking Hinata home, and Iwaizumi needs to check on his siblings. But I’m _sure_ you and Matsukawa could figure that out,” Oikawa says, looking between the two. 

Hanamaki swivels to face Matsukawa completely, raising his brows. “Oh? Well I sure have a few ideas.” He bites his lips, cocking his head as Matsukawa rolls his eyes in response. He leans down and kisses him again, both ignorant to the _click_ of heels on tile floor echoing through the empty room. 

They all turn to look at the woman who entered. Her black dress falls just above the knee, angular like her cheekbones and sharp eyes narrowed, lips twisted in distaste. There’s a large gold statement piece resting on her neck, with diamonds twinkling to match the ones in her ears, on her watch, and her wrist. He hair, a rich shade of brown, is tied up in an elegant knot, pulling it away from her face. And through the expression of distaste painted on her, Hinata senses the smallest hints of familiarity in the colour of her eyes, her nose, her chin, finally coming to realize who this woman is. 

Hanamaki Nanae. 

Matsukawa pulls back from Hanamaki in an instant, hand gripping the back of his chair as his boyfriend goes rigid. Hinata feels Oikawa stiffen behind him, grip on his waist growing tighter, and before he can wonder why, Nanae raises her palm and smacks Hanamaki across the cheek. 

The sound is deafening. Hinata becomes frozen like the rest of them, eyes wide in horror as Hanamaki averts his gaze, cheek red from where his own mother hit him. 

“Do you realize how much you embarrassed me tonight?” she asks. Her voice is clipped, quite, and deeper than Hinata expected. “Look at me when I’m talking to you. _Do you realize?”_

Hanamaki looks up, expression almost void. “I didn’t know you were coming,” he says, each word spoken slowly, carefully. 

“Is that a problem?” she asks. “I surely had better things to do than come here, and now you’re acting ungrateful?”

“I just didn’t know, I’m sorry,” Hanamaki apologizes, still in the same, meek tone, unrecognizable from the Hanamaki Hinata knows. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“No, because it seems you think it’s fine to act like a spoiled child on stage for the first time,” she snaps, taking another step forwards. “As if that was your best performance— anyone could see you were slacking off.”

“I thought you didn’t even like ballet?” Hanamaki bites back, breaking out of his shell only to freeze, as if recognizing his own mistake. Nanae reaches forwards and grabs his jaw, forcing him to look up at her. 

“Don’t you _dare_ talk back at me, Takahiro,” she commands, nails digging into his skin. She isn’t tall, nor strong, but with Hanamaki sitting down there’s no questioning the aura surrounding her. She looks away from him, glaring up at Matsukawa, who shakes in silent rage, hands fisted at his side. “Are these still the people you surround yourself with?” she asks, turning to face Iwaizumi, Oikawa, and Hinata. “Good for nothing pretty boys and lower level _scum?_ I send you to one of the most prestigious schools in this country, and _these_ are the people you call friends?”

Hanamaki doesn’t answer— Hinata doesn’t think he could. He simply stews in the shame and disappointment of his mother until her hand drops from his jaw, until she turns to face the door. 

“We’re leaving. The driver is already waiting,” she tells him. “And I’m _not_ having those weeds in my house.”

“Yes mother,” Hanamaki grits out, rubbing his jaw as he stands to collect his bag from under the table. He looks back at Matsukawa with remorse written onto his face, before walking to follow behind his mother.

But before they reach the door, she stops, looking over her shoulder towards the four of them standing in silence. “Oh, and Hinata Shouyou,” she calls out, voice suddenly poised and graceful, buttery with charm. “The board of directors is _delighted_ at your progress. It would be a shame if you were to lose it all just for running your mouth.”

With that she turns, stepping out of the room with Hanamaki on her heels. The dressing room, silent once more, suddenly feels uncomfortably small, as if the walls were close enough to suffocate. And Hinata, frozen with fear, doesn’t move until Matsukawa slams his fist on the vanity. 

 _“Fuck,”_ he hisses, eyes squeezing tight. The bouquet of roses sits just next to his hand, abandoned on the vanity. “That fucking _bitch_. She doesn’t deserve to even look at him.”

Hinata shakes his head, swallowing the knot in his throat because Matsukawa is _trembling._  “She can’t just do that,” he says, voice breaking as the memory of her narrowed eyes looms over. “We need to say something! She— you saw what she did!”

“Hinata,” Iwaizumi says, voice quiet as he rests a hand onto Matsukawa’s shoulder. “We _can’t._ It isn’t just you she has control over.” 

Hinata steps out of Oikawa’s hold, looking between him and Iwaizumi in disbelief as realization slowly dawns on him— _Iwaizumi’s family._  

Oikawa wraps his arms back around Hinata, holding his head to his chest. “Let's get you home,” he says, and when Hinata looks up its to see a kind of darkness in Oikawa’s eyes he hasn’t seen before, a barely contained rage burning like embers. Hinata nods, looking back at Matsukawa and the tears brimming at his eyes. 

“He’ll be okay,” Oikawa assures him, cupping Hinata’s cheek. “I just need to know that you’re going to get home safe.”

Nodding mutely, Hinata looks away, wishing he were deaf to the smallest choked sobs Matsukawa lets out. Oikawa and Iwaizumi step towards him, murmuring something under their breath to him, before Oikawa returns to Hinata’s side, walking him out the dressing room, out of the theatre, into the parking garage where the red motorbike waits to whisk them away from it all. 

There’s no world stopping moment as they speed back through the city, still phosphorescent in the inky black night. Through the tears in his eyes, the colours blur until all they become are reminders of this sickly city, of its rotten core. And Hinata presses his cheek to Oikawa’s back and holds him so tight in the hope that he’ll never have to let go, letting the wind batter against him as they race down empty stretches of roads. 

Hinata doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t know what’s home. Safety seems less and less like anything but an illusion, but when he’s with Oikawa he knows that nothing could touch him, not a guard or a politician or the seediest of the city’s underbelly. So instead of thinking about the threat that creeps up from the concrete, he closes his eyes and pretends that this is all that there is, them and an endless highway, a ride home that never ends, an embrace without ever letting go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: human experimentation, surgery on someone completely awake, graphic description of bodily parts, implied/referenced child abuse

**Author's Note:**

> questions? comments? wanna tell us your thoughts? drop a comment or kudos or slide into our dms on twitter: mookzymooks and lesbianiwaizumi !


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